


That he may hold me by the hand

by galadrieljones



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Ending, Angst, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bittersweet, Camaraderie, Canon Continuation, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Arthur Morgan, Romance, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galadrieljones/pseuds/galadrieljones
Summary: After saving Albert from stumbling off a cliff in the Heartlands, Arthur invites him to Valentine for a drink. What ensues after that is a quiet love story, in which both men find themselves completely undone.





	1. Well, we are untamed.

**Author's Note:**

> A glimpse through an interstice caught,  
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,  
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,  
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,  
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word. 
> 
> -Walt Whitman, "A Glimpse"

It was a quiet evening, that night he ran into Arthur Morgan again out near Caliban’s Seat, just south of Valentine. Albert had been photographing eagles, or trying to, spouting off a real big game as he tripped off the ledge up there like a fucking fool. He should have died, showing off like that. Truth be told. But the outlaw—he rustled him back up the ledge, put him back on his feet, and dusted off his vest like it was no big thing. He was never flustered, this man, Arthur Morgan. He seemed untamed and yet quietly sewn around the edges. The seams were messy, but there they were, seams. 

Reduced to a wilting version of his former self, Albert glanced over the ledge after his near-death experience. As usual, he placed himself in Mr. Morgan’s debt, charming with his song and show energy that had become, to him, second nature. Arthur was unconcerned with anything like debts. He just smiled. Albert looked up at the sky now where the sun was on its last legs in the west. He felt strange about leaving. The randomness had begun to stack up and was beginning to trigger inside of him some odd anxiety in which he wondered if he was ever going to see him again. “I’m—I’m sorry for all the trouble,” said Albert, straightening his hat, picking up his leather valise with the fraying handle. The tripod and the camera all gathered into his arms. He freed one hand, held it out for a shake. “Mr. Morgan. Perhaps—”

“I’m going into Valentine,” said Arthur. He shook Albert's hand, held it firm, then released him and lit a cigarette. He tipped his hat back a little so Albert could see his whole face. “I got a thing going with a buddy of mine. Told me to meet him at the auction yard, but that ain’t till morning. You wanna come, have a drink with me?”

Albert blinked. Sometimes he got hot, around the rim of his collar for no reason.

“It’s just an offer,” said Arthur, confident. He smoked. “I mean, if you’re headed that way.” 

“Oh, right,” said Albert, shaking out his head a little, as if he had only just realized what he was being asked. “Yes,” he said. “You know, I haven’t made many friends here. The untamed country, it can be unforgiving, to say the least. Dreadfully lonely. A drink would be—it would be nice.”

“Good,” said Arthur, that half-smile. He tossed the cigarette, took Albert’s valise in a gentlemanly fashion, lashed it up on Albert’s horse then hopped up to the saddle of his own. “Come on. Get the rest of that stuff on your horse, and follow me.”

“Okay.”

A molten, muddy town, Valentine welcomed them. Its name alone was sweet, like an invitation. Though neither of them thought of that at the time. Life is sometimes full of feelings that we do not know we feel until we're already inside them, captives to our own ignorance. 

“It’s kind of good,” said Arthur, taking a seat at a booth by the window, “meeting on purpose for once, don’t you think?”

“I do,” said Albert, sitting across from him. He still had his valise which seemed home to all of his earthly goods, but he had left the rest of it all outside on his horse, which they could see through the window. “I very much do. I've never been terribly charming, I'm afraid. I don't find myself forging many friendships.”

"You charm just fine," said Arthur, settling in. "And I wouldn't worry about forging too many friendships, Mr. Mason. In my experience, one or two will suffice."

Albert seemed to find this comforting.

Arthur set a toothpick between his teeth then, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “So, where are you from anyway?”

Albert removed his hat, straightened up in the booth. “I am from Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia,” said Arthur. “Well, that is a place I can safely say I have never been.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like this,” said Albert. “This wide open country. It’s very…constricted. There are walls on all sides it seems. Pressing in.”

“And you don’t like walls.”

“No, sir. Well, I mean, I am not opposed to walls. But in a more philosophical sense, no, I do not like walls.”

“Me neither,” said Arthur. He gestured for the bartender, snapped his fingers and was immediately catered to.

“What’ll it be?” shouted that bartender, wise to Arthur by now, shining up a glass behind the counter.

“A whiskey for me,” said Arthur. "Make it a double. And, uh—” He looked at Albert. “What do you want, Mr. Mason?”

“Uh, gin, perhaps?”

“And a gin. And do that one up nice, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur returned his focus now, chewing that toothpick.

“What does that mean?” said Albert. “_Do it up nice?_”

“Ah, I just meant, you ain’t the rough sort, Mr. Mason. Straight-up don’t really seem like your style. He’ll put a little mint leaf in there for you. Maybe sweeten it up a bit.”

“Gin with mint and sugar?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“It sounds good,” said Albert, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They sat for a little while. There were conversations everywhere in the saloon, the smell of liquor like ribbons, wrapping all around and inside. Arthur had his hands folded on the table now, gazing out the window. A coach went by, pulling a whole load of timber. The man driving was holding a lantern that sort of dangled, and he was shouting for the horses to pull steady through the mud.

“Where are you from, Mr. Morgan?" said Albert.

This sort of yanked him back into the moment. He looked back at Albert who was a patient man. "Sorry?" said Arthur.

“Did I startle you? I just asked where you were from.”

“Oh,” said Arthur, a little clumsy feeling. “Apologies.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I think I was born somewhere in northern Nebraska,” said Arthur. “Whereabouts, at least. My ma and pa set out on the Oregon Trail when I was four or five? I ain’t got much memory of that.”

“The Oregon Trail?” said Albert. “Fascinating.”

“I’m sure it was, in some respects.”

“Albeit difficult, I surmise.” Albert removed his hat, set it on the booth beside him. “For your mother especially. I can't imagine that being an easy journey, particularly when you've got a small child. Is she still alive, your mother?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. She passed when I was nine years old. We was up in Oregon when she got sick.”

“Oh,” said Albert, softening, becoming almost transparent, like a ghost. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur. “It’s a more or less typical thing to ask. And that's a long time ago. I was a kid.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose.”

The bartender came over then with their drinks. They toasted. “How is it?” said Arthur.

“Very good. Thank you, sir.”

“So where you living?” said Arthur, sipping his whiskey. “You must have a room, or a place around here somewhere.”

“Well, I’ve camped some.”

Arthur chuckled at this. “You? Camping?”

Albert laughed as well, canny to this particular predicament of heroics and protection and how it had become commonplace in the fabric of their friendship. He was not offended. “I’ll have you know, good sir, I’m not quite as hapless as I may seem,” he said. “Of course, I’m not you. That is well-established. I cannot live meaningfully off the land for any sustained period of time. I am far from a...piece of its beauty, if you will. But I do my best.”

Arthur gazed at him. A man started playing a little tune on the piano, and some of the saloon girls were singing along. “You’re not camping near no gator nests, I hope.”

Albert shook his head, amused. “No, no. Of course not. I have learned something these past months. But speaking of predators, I do have a room, down in St. Denis, over the high saloon there. They’ll rent by the week if they like you.”

“And they like you, Mr. Mason?”

“Well.” He blushed. “Apparently. Though I've no idea why.”

“Please.” Arthur took a long drink. “Why St. Denis?” he said. “I thought you said you didn’t like walls, in a philosophical sense.”

“I don’t,” said Albert. “That’s just where the train dropped me off. Tonight I suppose I’ll get a room here, in Valentine. I’ve stayed at the hotel once or twice.” He took some of his gin, tapped his fingers on the table. He had a little bit of sun burn on his face, Arthur noticed. Albert picked up his hat off the bench and set it on the table, as if to keep an eye on it, and then he wiped his forehead with a gold handkerchief from his pocket. “It sure is warm in here.”

“Little bit,” said Arthur.

“Where do you live, Mr. Morgan?”

“Please. Just call me Arthur.”

“Right,” said Albert. “Where do you live, Arthur?”

“All over,” said Arthur. “My gang—I travel with, a gang of sorts—we got a sort of big old camp, not far from here.”

“You live nearby?”

“For now.”

“I see,” said Albert, nodding. “You know, I’ve thought of you often, Arthur.” He looked up, a starry man. The way he talked sometimes, it was just like storytelling. “I’ve seen you enough times now, out in this wilderness. You live a life of your own inside my foolish memory. But there, you’re more a character than a man. So far, I mean. Though I expect that will change.”

“A character?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “Like a hero from the storied wilds of the west. Almost Byronic. Always seeming to be there right when the damsel is about to accidentally kill herself with her hubris.”

Arthur laughed at this. “Now, I've read Byron,” he said. "I think you're either flattering me or insulting me, Mr. Mason."

“It’s just Albert,” he said, smiling down into his drink. “Al, if you’re feeling cheeky. And I would never insult you. But don’t mind me. I grow sentimental with alcohol.”

“Good men always do in my experience,” said Arthur.

“Sometimes I miss the walls back home," said Albert, a little subdued. "Their absence, it makes me fearful. Like I’m falling forever, and there will be nothing there to catch me. I wish I weren't so sheltered. The uncertainty, it makes me babble.”

“You got a family?” said Arthur.

Albert shook his head. He finished his drink. Arthur snapped his fingers, silently beckoned the bartender for a refill.

“I never married,” said Albert. “Never had the time. Then again, I'm only thirty. My mother, she’s still alive. I suppose that's family enough. She writes me letters, telling me about her goings around the town. She’s a dreadful gossip. But a good woman. She may be moving to California soon.”

”California? Whereabouts?”

”Her brother lives in a cabin near Monterey, in a charming township called Carmel-by-the-Sea.”

”Carmel,” said Arthur. He had never been there, but he'd heard of it. It made him think of fishermen. “Yeah, I know that place.”

“She was always proud of me,” said Albert. “My dear gossip of a mother. She helped put me through school, even after father died.” He nodded to himself. The bartender came by to refill his gin drink. “Thank you, sir,” Albert said.

“No problem,” said the bartender and went away.

“She sounds real nice,” said Arthur, smiling. He wasn't surprised by Albert's age. That seemed right. “It’s nice that she helped you.”

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of years,” said Albert, drinking. “What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“Have you got a wife? A family?”

Arthur sighed, shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Arthur laughed, mostly at himself. “Lord knows I’ve tried,” he said. “Believe me. I’ve had my share of chances.” He was turning a coin in his fingers now, from his pocket.

"Well, you can't be but what, thirty-five?"

Arthur studied him. "Pretty close."

"There's still time. If it's what you want."

Arthur found this amusing. “I was engaged, once. Years ago. I do miss her sometimes. But let’s just say it ain’t worth the headache.”

“How come?”

“She’s—well, she’s a little like you.” He smiled. “I don’t mean the headache part. I mean that she’s above my station. Our inequalities manifested in any number of detestable ways, drove us apart. It wasn’t never gonna work. She’s too good for me. ”

“I’m not too good for you,” said Albert. “Don’t be silly, Arthur. And I’m sorry, that it didn’t work out.”

Arthur saw the ways his face flickered, an optimist. He smiled at Albert but he did not agree with his former claim. “Thank you.”

”Don’t mention it.”

“When will you be going back to Philadelphia?” he said.

“Not for several months, at least,” said Albert. “Truth be told, my timeline is a bit of a shit show. Pardon my language. I haven’t gotten nearly enough of what I came for.”

“Oh yeah? What are you still missing?”

“A great deal,” said Albert, seeming filled with resolve all of a sudden. Maybe it was the booze. “Perhaps you could help me. I’m on the search for black bear.”

“Black bear?” said Arthur. “I know a couple good spots for finding black bear.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” said Albert. “Perhaps we could meet again, sometime soon. Go…bear hunting, if you will. I don’t mean bear-shooting. No, of course not. I mean, unless they try to eat me. I just mean—well you know what I mean by now.”

Arthur smirked, just a little bit. “Yeah, I do.”

Albert straightened up with his elbows off the table, looking relieved. “Where are the black bear?" he said. "I thought I read in my atlas that west of Annesburg was a good spot.”

"Yeah, a good spot if you wanna get ambushed by hill people who'd fancy sucking your eyeballs out through a straw."

It was like being pitched straight off a cliff. Albert looked up from where he had been fussing with the buttons on his sleeve. "Good heavens. Hill people?"

"You stick with me, Mr. Mason," said Arthur, taking a long drink. "I'll get you some black bear, but considering your luck, I think we should avoid the Roanoke Valley."

"Whatever you say."

“Will you be heading back to St. Denis?” said Arthur.

“Tomorrow, yes,” Albert said. “I have a meeting there, with a gallery owner.”

“A gallery?” said Arthur, seriously. “They gonna show your photos?”

“I hope so,” said Albert.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Indeed. Though it's all very cut throat and unclear, and I haven’t got my hopes up.”

They finished up their drinks after that, listening to the piano. The bar was getting fuller, men standing shoulder to shoulder and the occasional woman, fanning herself at the bar. Neither Albert nor Arthur seemed very willing to drink any more.

“Well,” said Albert after a little while. “I suppose I should be going. The train out of here is very early in the morning.”

“Yeah, I should be going, too,” said Arthur.

"Will you head back to your camp, or...?"

"Maybe," said Arthur. "Or I might just set up shop in the hills till morning."

"You mean, sleep under the stars?"

"Sure."

"Well," said Albert. "I do envy you your casual relationship with nature. You know I always have."

"You're too kind to me," said Arthur, giving in a little. It was easy, which surprised him. Arthur thought it felt vaguely like looking in a mirror that could reflect another universe. He left the coin on the table for the bartender. Then he went up to settle whatever there was on his tab. Albert had put on his hat and was waiting for him at the door.

Outside, the night was cool. The sky was big and so clear you could see the whole galaxy up there, spread out like buckshot. The streets were quiet, but there was some bustle. Always men moving in and out of these parts, working girls smoking. One of the girls said hello to Arthur, as he had seen her around before. Her name was Violet, and she was young and this always triggered inside him a sense of failure. He wanted to save her, but he had tried that sort of thing before. It was an old complex for Arthur, and by now he knew a selfish endeavor.

Arthur took the reins on Albert’s horse and lead her along, walking Albert over to the hotel. He kept his hat off the whole time. Albert held his valise with one hand by his side. Arthur tied up the old girl and patted her once behind the ear. “What’s your horse’s name,” he said.

“Martha,” said Albert. "After my late grandmother."

“Martha,” said Arthur, smiling. “That’s a nice name.”

“I think so. What about your horse. She’s a real beauty. Is that an Arabian?”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, gazing back to where she was tied up at the saloon. “Wild. I broke her myself. Found her up near Lake Isabella."

"Boy, that's far."

"You're telling me. She was so averse to me at first, I basically lived up there for two weeks, trying to get her to like me. It was grueling, but it worked.”

“That’s remarkable,” said Albert. “What is her name?”

“Amelia.”

Albert smiled. “Amelia.”

“You gonna be able to stay out of trouble, Albert?” joked Arthur, walking him up the stairs. “I mean, till I see you next.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “Or, I’ll try.”

“That would be good.”

“When will I see you next?” said Albert.

Arthur thought on it. There was a whole lot of moon out that night, illuminating their eyes. They stopped just short of the door. The hour was late and there was no one else in earshot. “Well, for black bear, I'd take you out to Big Valley.”

"Big Valley, in West Elizabeth?"

"Yes, sir. Beautiful country out there. I think you'll really like it."

“All right,” said Albert, seeming giddy all of a sudden. “Perhaps we could meet in Strawberry, in two weeks? That should give me enough time to get back to St. Denis, get my affairs in order with the gallery, perhaps write my mother again. She’s a bit of worrier.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur, nodding. He thought that Albert's mother probably ought to worry, given the wayward tendencies of her son. “Two weeks. You wanna meet me at the hotel there? It's a dry town, but you can bribe the proprietor. He's got a speakeasy in the back."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. Meet me there, in the middle of the day. How’s noon?”

“Noon is perfect.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He opened the door so that Albert could step inside. “It’s been a pleasure, Albert Mason.”

“For me as well, Arthur Morgan. I’ll see you in two weeks. In Strawberry. On purpose this time.”

“Two weeks.” Arthur patted him on the shoulder, gave him a two-finger salute. Albert did the same. It was a bit of an awkward gesture for him but truth be told Albert's particular brand of awkward gestures were endearing to Arthur. That whole man made him feel warmer, like he'd been heated by one whole degree from the inside. It was a trifle confusing, but Arthur was somewhat used to confusion in those days. 

He rode his horse out of town about five miles and decided to camp on the river, rather than head back to Horseshoe. He felt like loneliness. He caught a fish and panfried it and ate it with his fingers. He drank water, and he drank more whiskey. Then he took out his journal. He lit the torch from his saddlebag, let it sit there, attracting moths, reminding him of that stagecoach in Valentine, pushing through the mud, and the fine evening he had spent. He didn't write much, but he did sketch a little. He drew Albert Mason, holding his valise and wearing his hat, waiting by the saloon double-doors. He also drew a picture of a mint leaf, floating in gin. On the opposite page, he wrote, _I shall die a fool__. _

Arthur fell asleep flat on his back on his bedroll, too tired and drunk to build a tent. The world had been kind to Albert Mason. That was one very important thing that Arthur learned that night. The world had been kind, and this imbued him with some bright confidence, despite what he might have had you think, and his overall bumbling demeanor. Talking to him was a cleansing experience. It made Arthur remember things. It made him feel things, remember that he could want things. It reminded him that he was still young, and life was strange and full of welcome confusions, like this one.


	2. We don't have to talk.

Arthur showed up to Strawberry a couple of days early. He played a bunch of blackjack in the speakeasy and won the pot so many times he began to piss people off. He knew how to cheat and calculate cards. He never made for sleight of hand anymore, though he used to. He chewed on coccaine gum at the speakeasy counter on the night before he was set to meet Albert and struck up conversation with a widow who boarded in an apartment in town. Her name was Wanda Eugene, and she had once been married to a rustler named Cody and claimed to have lived in Texas for most of her life.

“I ain’t met a lot of women married to rustlers no more,” said Arthur.

“Well, he’s dead,” said Wanda. “So.”

They were drinking whiskey. “You miss Texas?”

“Most days.”

“What’s keeping you from going back?”

She had wide, tired eyes, but she was mild-looking. Pretty in a plain sort of way. She was probably about Arthur’s age with a tight braid down her back and wearing blue jeans. She said that she could not go back to Texas. She said that every time she even thought about going back, she was met with nightmares of the way her late husband had died. “Shot by a Ranger,” she said. “Three times in the back. They thought he was somebody else. Fucking two-bit assholes.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Arthur.

“Jesus was not there that day, I can assure you. I hate lawmen. I wish they’d all die.”

She openly asked him to spend the night with her then. She said he seemed big and rough, and she missed that sort of man. She was sick of the soft-handed. Arthur found himself oddly flattered. “I ain’t much for temptation, Mrs. Eugene. If I was, you might just be it.”

“Is that a No then?”

“It is.”

She sighed. “Good grief. I’m just so goddam lonely. I’m starting to forget what it is to feel.” She finished her whiskey and ordered another from the bartender who was missing a front tooth. “One for my friend here, too,” she said.

Arthur knew the feeling of which she spoke. He missed the human body. He often wished he still got the inclination to sleep with strangers. And when it came to working girls, he had lost his interest. He felt beyond their wiles, as he could tell that they were all so deadened to touch, they hardly noticed their own needs, and this was not what he wanted. He just wanted something warm, something that would react to him. For a moment, he reconsidered her offer, but ultimately, he just smiled.

“You got a wife, I bet,” she said. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he lied. It was easier to lie.

The next day, Arthur woke up late with a headache. He had some oatmeal in the lounge. The proprietor of the hotel in Strawberry was annoying. He spoke regularly of the town as if it were the center of the universe. Arthur wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and take a vacation. But he didn’t.

He waited and read the newspaper. The front page went on about Valentine and all that had gone down there. SHOOTOUT IN VALENTINE. A whole lot of shit. Arthur sighed, folded the paper in half and set it away. He wore his hat and sat in a chair by the window and smoked, thinking of anything else. People went in and out of the door. He didn’t see Wanda again.

Albert arrived about half-past noon, looking dead beat and like hadn’t slept in days.

“Mr. Mason,” said Arthur, rising to meet him.

Albert sneezed and refused a hand shake.

“What’s going on?” said Arthur. “You sick?”

“I am,” said Albert, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. “I caught a terrible cold a few days back. Truth be told, I thought it would have subsided by now.”

“That ain’t no good.”

“No sir. However, it is good to see you.” He straightened up and removed his hat. He smiled, his kind eyes. He didn’t look so bad upon further inspection. A little puffy maybe.

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Arthur. He took Albert’s bag, told him to take a seat. “You know, we can postpone our journey, if you wanna rest up a bit.”

“No, no,” said Albert. “I’d prefer not to. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“As have I, but I don’t want you to get any sicker.”

“You are a true gentleman, Arthur. But I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

They left about an hour later, packed up their horses and rode northwest. Albert sneezed most of the way but kept up. He was a better rider than Arthur had realized. It was easy to underestimate him. He made a mental note not to do that anymore.

They followed the river. When they got to the heart of Big Valley, Albert slowed his horse and shouted for Arthur to hold up a second. They were in the middle of a huge, purple field of lavender. The breeze was coming through, rustling the plants. There was a flock of sheep nearby, and a young man shepherd on horseback. Whitetail everywhere. “My lord,” said Albert. He got off of his horse, took a few steps and looked around. “Do you see all this?”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur. He leaned forward to pat Amelia on the main. “It sure is majestic. I knew you’d like it.”

“Like it?” said Albert. “It’s magnificent.” He looked at Arthur, serious, no longer sneezing, just full of reverence. “Thank you for taking me here. I’ve already forgotten why we’ve come, but I am quite certain I never want to leave. It is truly Arcadia.”

Arthur smiled, very pleased. He dusted his hands together and hopped right off his horse. “To find the bear, we gotta go out to the edges of the valley,” he said. “It’s a little more dangerous out there. Kind of barbed territory. There’s cougar and boar. It ain’t friendly. But here, here I reckon we’re pretty safe.”

“If you say so,” said Albert. “I’d like to get a few shots of all this, if you don’t mind. The fields. They smell so darn good. I wish I could capture that in a photo.”

“Only way to do that is in writing, I expect.”

“Absolutely,” said Albert. Then, “Do you write, Arthur?”

The question took Arthur by surprise. He glanced up to the sky. A couple of sparrows took off, whipping up out of the foliage. “Sometimes,” he said. He hooked his hands over his belt in a casual fashion. “I have been known to write a little.”

Albert smiled. “I should like to read it someday, your writing.”

“Oh, no,” said Arthur. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a journal,” said Arthur. “It’s just ramblings. Sketches here and there. It ain’t really intended for an audience.”

“You’re an artist?”

He blushed. “Well, I—”

“Say no more,” said Albert, still effusive but seeming to catch his drift. “I’ll quit prying.”

“That’s okay.”

Albert assembled his camera, his tripod. He took many pictures of the fields. He took pictures of the sheep and the shepherd, the little dog with two different colored eyes that herded the sheep. Arthur watched. He ate a can of strawberries with a little tin spoon, smoked four cigarettes. He and Albert talked of stuff he would later forget about, idle things. Arthur managed to get a few sketches in—one of the dog, one of Albert photographing the dog. They fed the horses and before long, the sun was losing steam and the light growing long and lost across the valley. The bubbling streams filled with herbivores, coming to drink. Albert put away his camera with the loss of the light, and with this, it was too late to go looking for bear. They decided to make camp.

They washed their faces in the creek, set up a couple tents. Arthur caught a fish for their dinner while Albert sat by the fire, rolling cigarettes. He had a particular talent for this. His tobacco product was very neat and looked expensive.

Arthur cleaned and cooked the fish. After dinner, he poured some whiskey into a flask, and night fell. They sat, warming themselves by the fire. Albert gave him one of the cigarettes, struck a match, lit it, and then lit his own. Albert’s cold seemed to be clearing with the fresh air, but now it was getting chilly, and he had grown tired. Arthur rolled some more cigarettes. His were looser than Albert’s, not quite as meticulously sealed.

They sat and smoked for a while, existing. Arthur had a flask of whiskey, which they began to pass. At some point, Albert cleared his throat and sat up to speak. “So, Arthur.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How has everything been going, since I saw you last?”

Arthur glanced at him. He plucked a big old piece of grass from the earth, the cigarette hitched to the corner of his mouth. “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

“Are you still living in the Heartlands?”

“No,” he said, shredding that piece of grass between his fingers.

“Oh?” said Albert. “Where have you moved?”

“Further south,” said Arthur, laying the pieces of grass side by side. “Near a big old lake.”

“Flat Iron Lake?”

“That might be the one.”

“Good fishing, or so I hear.”

“That, it is.”

The fire crackled and sparked. It was like molten lava. Albert smoked and blew the smoke and flicked the ashes to the earth. He could tell that Arthur didn’t really want to talk about it. His head was a little stuffy. He blinked, took a drag.

“How you feeling?” said Arthur. “Your cold.”

“Better,” said Albert. “A little tired, but no worse for the wear.”

Arthur picked up a pebble then, tossed it into the fire. Albert took a drink from the flask and watched as Arthur picked up another pebble, held it in his palm, and then he absentmindedly closed it in his fist. He turned his fist over, sort of shook it, and when he opened his hand again, the pebble was gone. It was a marvelous surprise.

Albert laughed and set the flask down between them. “You know magic?”

Arthur seemed to have surprised himself. “A little,” he said, smiling. “I learned sleight of hand when I was kid, for cheating cards. My dad taught me, before he died. And I know a magician, too. He’s taught me a couple of things here and there. We’ve traded tricks over the years.”

“Your father, what did he do?”

“Rob banks mostly.”

“I see.”

“Anyway,” said Arthur.

“I must say,” said Albert. “I’m impressed. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Arthur turned red—like a fast, hot streak in which he seemed to vibrate, but only for a moment. “You flatter me.”

“Maybe you can show me how to do that. It’s a great parlor trick.”

“Do you hang out in many parlors, Albert?”

Albert found this to be funny. He laughed. “Oh, no. Not anymore. Perhaps a long time ago. Back in Pennsylvania, when I was a teenager. But I’ve done with all that.”

"All what.”

“The social circus. What have you.”

“Ah.”

“My interest in photography came about precisely so that I could have an excuse to get out of the house. I suppose that it took, though I am quite dreadful. Still, I try. I enjoy it a great deal.”

“You’re not dreadful, Albert. Quit talking about yourself that way.”

Albert knew that he was right. He was gratified. He took another drink from the flask, passed it. Arthur was a big man beside him. He’d never really sat next to him before. He was taller than Albert, though not a great deal—just enough, and his width, his wingspan, it could intimidate. Albert was not intimidated. He looked down, finished his cigarette, tossed it into the fire. The air was cold, and he shifted toward Arthur a little, almost absentmindedly.

“Hey,” said Arthur after a little while, swigging from the flask.

Albert jumped. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just gonna ask, how did that meeting go with the gallery owner?”

“Oh,” said Albert, scratching at his beard a little. “It went well. Thank you for asking. I have another meeting in a few weeks. I’ve promised more material. From the Big Valley, of course.”

“That’s real good, I expect?”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

Arthur stared at him. He seemed a little sad, but it was way in the back somewhere. He took a drink of his whiskey and then looked back at the fire. “Good.”

“Arthur,” said Albert.

“Yep.”

“Thank you for taking me here,” he said. Arthur looked back, genuine. “I’m very fond of the terrain.” Albert took a deep breath. “I’m fond of you. I’m glad you’re with me.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. “Yeah, me, too,” he said, then he looked up and smiled, warm. He had little scars on his face. They were like little pieces taken away, or dents. Here and there. His hands were big and worn. Albert watched as he reached into his front pocket, took out a couple more cigarettes. He held one out for Albert. Albert took it. Their fingers touched. Something kicked up between them, but it was momentary.

“I think I’ll save this.” Albert smiled. “For now, I should be off to sleep. I’m still under the weather. I’d like to be fresh for tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” said Arthur, lighting the cigarette. “I’m gonna keep watch, just for a little while. There’s cougars around here. Sometimes they’re drawn to the smell of a campfire.”

Albert stood up, dusted off his pants. “It’s chilly,” he said. “Don’t stay up too late, and be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me. You get some sleep now, Mr. Mason.”

“Goodnight, Arthur,” said Albert.

“Goodnight.”

Back in his tent, Albert removed his boots and his hat. He scrubbed his scalp a little. He smoothed his beard, looked down at his fingers where he held the cigarette. Then he tucked it into the band of his hat. He lay back and closed his eyes. He could smell the smoke from Arthur’s cigarette, coming in through the tent flaps. Arthur’s tobacco was fresh and cut with a little bit of sweetness. He couldn’t tell what, but he could tell that Arthur had dried and treated it himself. It was not store-bought. Albert felt disoriented all of a sudden, like he was coming apart a little. He turned onto his side to go to sleep.

Meanwhile, Arthur fell asleep next to the fire, hardened into the dirt as a root. He hadn’t meant to drift, but the night was peaceful, and he’d got woozy from the booze and it made his eyes droop. He rarely dreamed in those days. It was almost as if he was too locked down, too unwilling to look behind the curtain of his own subconscious, for fear of what he might find there. But that night, he had a dream. It was a very simple dream. He dreamed that a pretty buck had come down into the valley while he slept. The sky was a cold and lonely mountain, far away, and he was beneath it, waiting. The buck had twelve points. It entered the moonlight, emerging from a shallow den of trees on the edge of the lavender field. He wanted badly to sketch it, but he knew that he was sleeping, and it would be gone by the time he woke. He dreamed that the buck came over to sniff around the campfire. It sniffed around his face. Its cold nose was on his ear. He tried to make sense of the feeling. He awoke.

What he awoke to was nothing so peaceful. He felt that cold touch on his ear, but it was no buck. It was the mouth of a gun, pressing on his face. It was nudging him into consciousness.

“It’s him,” said a voice.

Arthur opened his eyes. It was dawn. He saw a young man—maybe twenty-four or twenty-five years old—a ruffian with missing teeth in the front wearing a long black coat. He looked serious. He was holding a shotgun to Arthur’s head.

Arthur felt the adrenaline, sucking into his chest and yanking him from the dream. Like being plunged into ice cold water, and it near on made him nauseous. He eased his hands over his head, turned onto his back. “Easy,” he said. “Easy, boy.”

“Shoot him,” said another voice.

“Colm said bring him to Hanging Dog alive,” said the boy.

Arthur was suddenly terrified. He glanced to the tent. He saw that it had been roughed up. Then he saw the other guy—he had Albert by the throat with a pistol to the head, and Albert looked white with fear and a little queasy. He was ragged, unnatural with his hands up like that. It triggered something in Arthur. He initially made to lunge, but he caught a boot to the gut for that, sending him to his side curled up like a goddam snail. The sound he’d made was ugly. He felt bludgeoned with regret, as he knew what he was going to have to do. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“You’re coming with us,” said the boy. “You go quiet, and we’ll let your friend here live.”

“Yeah, I don’t really believe you.”

“Arthur?” said Albert. “Arthur, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “Try not to talk too much, Mr. Mason.”

“If you say so.”

“Get up,” said the boy, nudging Arthur with the gun.

“You nudge me with that gun one more time, boy, things ain’t gonna pan out too smooth for you in the end.”

“Get up.” He nudged him again, this time too hard.

It went by in an instant after that. Arthur was fast when he wanted to be, ruthless. He grabbed the barrel of the gun with both hands, shoved it up, hard, cracking straight into the kid’s dumbass face. It sort of exploded on impact, his nose neatly broken as he stumbled backward, allowing Arthur to usurp the weapon and shove the boy into the dirt and shoot him dead. Arthur then pointed the gun at the second man, the one who had Albert. He was a young man as well, even younger by the looks of it, and Arthur felt terrible inside, like he was looking in a mirror. “Let him go, or I do you up, too,” he said.

The boy sent Albert forward to his hands and knees with little hesitation. Then he stared at Arthur in abject horror for a moment before picking up and running as fast as he could in the other direction. Arthur lowered the gun, let him go. He went to Albert who coughed and beat his fists into the dirt a couple times. He seemed to have got the wind knocked out of him. Arthur hauled him to his feet and steadied him hard. “You okay?” he said, dusting off his vest. “Albert? Talk to me.”

Albert was out of breath, his shirt untucked but he did have his boots on. “Good heavens,” he said. He lurched forward a little with his hands on his knees. “Is that man dead?”

Arthur patted him on the back. “I’m afraid he is. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Better him than me.”

“They ambush you in your tent or something?”

“No,” said Albert, popping up now, wiping his face with the yellow handkerchief from his pocket. “I went down to the creek, to get some water. They ambushed me there.” He sneezed.

“You went down to the creek alone?”

“I thought I could handle a few whitetail,” he said. “Those men showed up, asked me who you were. I wouldn’t tell them, so the one grabbed me, dragged me back here, and then the next thing you know, you’re shooting people, and my entire life is flashing before my eyes.” He sneezed again.

Arthur straightened up and sighed. “Bless you.”

“Thank you,” said Albert. He took a deep breath. “Boy I’ve got some luck, don’t I.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Arthur. “But we do need to get the hell out of here.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You know, I think the shots I got yesterday, of the lavender fields and the herd of sheep, those are better than anything I’ve gotten so far? No black bear, but bears be damned. I’m through with predators.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I am.” He turned to Arthur then, slowly, finally catching his breath. “Thank you. For saving me.”

“Of course. I wasn’t gonna let them kill you,” said Arthur. “And I sure as hell wasn’t going with them.”

“Did you know who they were?”

“Not really,” said Arthur, scratching his head. He looked around, making sure nobody else was coming up the horizon. “I mean—I know there’s rough stuff around these parts. I should’ve been more careful. I thought we was safe.”

“With you, I am always safe,” said Albert. “I just wish I were a little more aware of my surroundings. It’s always been a problem for me. As you well know. When I was a boy, my father used to shout at me to get my head out of the clouds. Told me to quit chasing the damned butterflies. That was before the cholera got him, of course.”

Arthur threw the shotgun over his shoulder by the strap, studied Albert. “Cholera, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, don’t be too down on yourself. You held your own back there.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You didn’t give in to those men. That’s very brave.”

Albert smiled in spite of himself. Then, he stumbled forward, just a little. Arthur caught him by the shoulders. “My word,” said Albert. “I guess I’m still a little dizzy.”

“Just try to breathe. In through your nose, out your mouth.”

“You’re kind, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t kind, Mr. Mason.”

“Well, to me, you are kind.” Albert smiled and took a deep breath. He seemed to blink many times as if to acclimate his vision. “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s please go.”

They packed up their camp, stowed the bedrolls and the tents and all of their earthly goods upon their horses. Arthur let Albert hang onto the canteen. They then mounted up and began riding back toward Strawberry at a pleasant trot. Arthur did not think about how that man he had killed back there, the man trying to abduct him, was an O'Driscoll. He tossed Albert an apple and then shined one up for himself.

“What are your plans now?” said Arthur as they came around the curve. The rocks, the terrain in these parts was beautiful, but treacherous. “You heading back right away?”

“I thought I’d stay the night at the hotel,” said Albert. “Take the train back to St. Denis in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur. “Maybe I’ll go with you.”

“Oh?”

“Sure,” he said, biting into that apple. “Where I’m camped, on Flat Iron Lake, it ain’t far from Rhodes.”

“Rhodes?” said Albert. “My, what a dreadful little town.”

“You’re telling me.”

“You know I stopped through there once,” said Albert, “just looking for a drink at the parlor house they've got. Four different men asked me where I stood on the War of Northern Aggression. Of course, they were all neanderthals, and far be it from me to correct them on the fact that it’s 1899. I thought I’d keep my front teeth.”

Arthur laughed out loud at this, tossed the apple core to the weeds. “You still make me laugh, Mr. Mason, the way you talk sometimes.”

“Well,” said Albert, a little bashful for this. He trotted up alongside him. “I certainly do try.”


	3. Only god knows, dear friend.

Arthur worked hard around camp at Clemens Point. He fished, chopped firewood, helped Kieran with the horses. He rode into town to collect a debt from an imbecilic youth that made for a grave-robber just to save his own hide. Arthur didn’t prefer robbing and killing anymore. He didn’t bother strangers unless they bothered him first. It was just too much of a hassle, a never-ending cycle he had finished with. So he hunted for food and pelts, sometimes with Charles, and he provided in his sturdy fashion. He drove Sadie into town to help her regain her confidence and also simply as a means of escaping his modern day existential boredom. They sometimes shared simple conversation down by the lake now, throwing rocks into the water and cleaning their guns. Dutch had made plans with the local law and together they had gone to take down moonshiners in the bayou, but all of Dutch’s reverie and promise-making sounded like a fantasy to Arthur by now. Far away, sophomoric. He was still living his same monotonous life, trusting as hard as he could, chipping away. Sometimes it felt like the things that Dutch wanted, he wanted as well, but for the most part, he wasn’t twenty-five anymore, and the land no longer felt free.

There were some times he would break up the days to drink some water or a bottle of beer and sit on the lake shore with Mary Beth. They would read together, or she would write while he sketched, and they would talk of their goings on in life and out in the world, and these were some of the most memorable moments he was spending those days in the camp. A couple of times, she took him pickpocketing at the parlor house in Rhodes, and boy was it a sight to see. Arthur counted Mary Beth as perhaps his closest friend in the gang. She could discuss matters of storytelling with him and held an interest in his art.

Arthur could have easily allowed himself to fall in love with a girl like Mary Beth. He could tell she would have liked him to open himself up to the possibility. Once or twice upon drinking too much whiskey late into the night, she had stolen a kiss from him. It was nice. She demanded little of him, and for her laid back disposition, he did like her. She was easy to be around and very pretty, and she asked him questions about his life. But the omniscient truth was, that just like almost everything else, Arthur had done all of this before. He had gone to the edge of happiness with a woman and drunk from its well. But it all ran dry. He was unwilling to do it again, as he had grown accustomed to failure, or at least he thought so. Mary Beth was very young and life was too fucked-up, and that really is all there was to it.

Yet he still had days where he felt free from the past, where he could roam at will and be a master of his own endless domain. He saw Albert several more times over the next couple months after their excursion in West Elizabeth. It was easy finding him, because he wanted to be found. They’d camp or drink in the Rhodes parlor house, making quiet fun of the ingrates who ran that piece of shit town, though Arthur had still never been to see him in St. Denis. During their talks, Arthur learned all about Albert, the modest but not inconsequential wealth from which he derived. But even as he was composed, well-traveled, and educated, he did not seem to hold this above anybody or anything, least of all Arthur. He seemed to count his experience in the world as frivolous and even juvenile in comparison to Arthur’s. He wanted for recklessness, even as Arthur attempted to council him otherwise. He said his mother was a suffragette in Philadelphia. He said he would have killed for half the bravery it must have taken for her to fight for the right to be heard.

Arthur was fascinated by the stories of Albert’s life and how different they were from his own. Albert never made Arthur to feel small and valued his tales of living in Oregon until the death of his mother, and how his father dragged him halfway to Colorado robbing and killing until he, himself, got strung up for dead. Arthur told him about how he had lived back then, on his own as a teenager, a hustler mostly, counting cards in the saloons of northern Wyoming and the vast, rocky stretches of the Tetons. He tamed horses, broke them to his touch, sold them, and worked as a ranch hand for a year. He told Albert about Dutch and about Hosea but without mentioning them by name. In talking to Albert, he realized how little of his life he was proud of. He told him about Mary but he skipped over Eliza, the same way he did whenever he was talking to Mary Beth, or to anybody about his life.

He became withdrawn in camp. Distant. He had begun speaking to John again on okay terms, and John noticed this one day right before Arthur was headed to Braithwaite Manor with Hosea on some sort of matter involving that confiscated moonshine.

“You okay?” he said, about to mount up, going into town on an errand for Dutch.

Arthur was smoking a cigarette, and John’s question surprised him. They were not in earshot of Hosea who sat reading a book on the back of the wagon, full of the moonshine jugs. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why you asking?”

“You just seem…preoccupied,” said John. “Or more bored than usual, maybe. I was wondering if maybe something happened.”

Arthur tossed the cigarette and adjusted his hat. He was flattered that John had thought to ask him about his life but entirely unwilling to share. “Nothing’s going on,” he said, even still. “Worry about your woman, Marston, and your boy. Don’t worry about me.”

“Whatever you say,” said John, though Arthur could tell he still didn’t really believe him. He rode off, leaving Arthur challenged into introspection for several days.

One night, he found himself in a scrape when a stagecoach robbery went south on account of Uncle’s ignorance, and he had to make himself scarce for a couple days. He found his way into the bayou, pretty deep, and there he ran into an outlaw woman named Black Belle. She was in a bind herself, and so he helped her—together they took down a whole crop of bounty hunters with a good deal of bullets and explosives, and truth be told it felt like the old days. Afterward, she left him with a photograph and a few stories from her younger, more rigorous years as a gunslinger. She fed him coffee with a bit of whiskey, too, before she went on her way.

The experience, though random, surprised Arthur. It was out of the ordinary. For this woman was truly golden and admired him for his acumen with a weapon and his rough and tough way of speaking about the world, but she was also warm. She was alive and doing things in the world. She was like him, and she was living, and she was alone, but she was tough and hard and mean, but she had blood pumping through her veins. She was not without smiling, and she was not without humor on the matter of her circumstances. Hanging with her was downright refreshing. It made everything seem simple again, like it should have been. After she was gone, Arthur became emboldened. Toward what he could not say, but he camped south of the train tracks that night, dodging gators, and then the next morning, he rode into St. Denis. He was looking for Albert, to sate the existential cycle of perpetual boredom that John had seemed to point out for him, and that he was more certainly becoming aware of. It seemed to be an old merry-go-round, his life, but he’d begun to realize that he could get off.

The city was new to him, but it was easy enough navigating the manicured cobblestone streets. He asked around until a nice young woman with a heavy French accent directed him to the high saloon. When he got inside, it was lunch time, and he went straight to the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey.

“You seen a man named Albert?” he said after a minute, nursing his drink. “Been boarding here a few months I think. A little smaller than me with a beard—real nice, talks fancy?”

“You mean Mr. Mason?” said the bartender. He was shining up a glass as they spoke.

“Yeah.”

“He’s right over there.” The bartender directed his glance to a quiet table by the window where Albert was sitting with a book and a cup of coffee. He was writing in the margins of the book furiously. Arthur admired for a moment.

“I hope you ain’t wanting for no trouble,” the bartender went on, setting down his glass and his rag defensively. “Mr. Mason always pays his tab. He’s never once missed his rent either.”

Arthur looked back, realizing how intimidating he must have looked in a town of such well-established civility. “I don’t doubt that,” he said. “And there’s no need to worry. I want no trouble. I’m just a friend.”

“Oh, good,” said the bartender. He smiled, relieved, and went back to his shining. “That man is too often alone if you ask me. He could do with a friend.”

“Makes two of us,” said Arthur. He then took the whiskey down in a single gulp, placed his payment on the bar, and smiled. “Thanks, mister.”

“Any time.”

He walked across the room to Albert’s booth. He slid in across from him casually.

Albert looked up right away, startled at first, but then genuinely and pleasantly surprised. “Arthur,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just in the neighborhood,” he said, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other. “Thought I might pay you a visit.”

Albert was smiling, like he was caught in disbelief. “Well, that is—”

“It’s okay,” said Arthur, nodding his head. “If you’re busy, I don’t need to stay long.”

“No, please do,” said Albert. He closed his book with the pen inside it, tucked it away and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “I’m never too busy. I’m just—I’m lost for words. I’m thrilled to see you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Arthur, feeling a warm streak across his cheeks, around the back of his neck, looking down at his gloved hands. He spoke almost as if to reassure himself. “That’s good.”

It turned out that Albert was on his way up to Bluewater Marsh to photograph snowy egrets along the banks of the Kamassa that day. He already had his bag and his camera packed. He invited Arthur, expressing relief.

“Up there, I believe it’s little more than beavers and copperheads,” said Albert as they mounted their horses outside, “but to get there one must pass through Lagras. I’m not sure my relationship to the gators there has improved any since our previous excursion in the bayou.”

Arthur laughed at this. “You’re a little bit more adept than you give yourself credit for, Albert,” he said. “I’m not saying you should be wrestling gators any time soon, but try not to sell yourself short.”

Albert steadied his horse, Martha. He smiled down into the reins. “Well, thank you, Arthur.”

They rode out of the city and followed the road north. Little by little, they freed themselves from the constraints of civilization and all of their previous attachments and concerns. As they went, their horses picking up across the muddy expanse of the bayou, Arthur told Albert all about his encounter with Black Belle, because it still stuck so strongly in his mind—her bravado and her explosives and ultimate pyromania. Albert was fascinated, as Arthur knew he would be, especially since he had not heard of many lady gunslingers, but he knew they must have existed. He asked whether it would be possible to get in touch with her again.

“I don’t think so,” said Arthur. “She was pretty much long gone last I saw her. I did get a picture though.”

They slowed down so that Arthur could dig the photo out of his satchel. He handed it over, their horses idling on the mucky pass. Frogs and birds churned all around, filling the world with their pretty, green songs. Albert was very much impressed by the photo. Arthur had sketched her, too. Little by little over the past weeks, he had been working up the courage to show Albert these pages in his journal. He showed him Black Belle. Albert was taken with the lines and the detail and very interested in Arthur’s artistic acumen, and he asked to see more. Arthur curated a few pages he thought Albert might like—wildlife and old abandoned churches and things. Albert returned the journal after he was finished and asked Arthur if he had ever considered painting. “If you had access to a canvas, paints and brushes, perhaps, is that something you would consider?” he said.

Arthur grew bashful. He declined to answer in any meaningful way and just smiled. He put away his journal and urged them forward instead, and they continued on their ride into the marsh. Albert was accustomed to Arthur’s reluctance by now, when it came to discussing certain parts of his life. He knew Arthur would share more when he was ready. He didn’t press him.

They stopped around some deep curve of the river and tied up their horses well away from the water. They tucked their pants tightly into their boots and began to make their way through the marshy brush and down to the river’s edge, mostly in complete silence. Arthur was chewing mint leaves and then he was chewing a reed he had plucked from the earth, and then he was smoking a cigarette. Albert found a good spot for his camera, hidden away beside a tree. There were already several egrets roosting on the opposite bank, picking at their feathers. They were not skittish birds, Arthur had surmised. They liked to sit and sun and did not nurture their disturbances. The snowy egret was a loner. The other egrets liked to travel in little bundles, but not the snowy egret. Albert called it a veritable ghost of the marsh and showed climactic focus as he took its picture again and again and again. Arthur leaned against a heavy rock as he did, proceeding to sketch the summery surroundings. He had forgotten what month it was and did not care to remind himself.

After Albert finished with his camera, he went down a little closer to the river bank to splash some water on his face, brighten up a bit. It was a warm day, and the flies were buzzing, but the Kamassa flowed down from the mountains to the north and as they got closer to the Roanoke Valley, the water got sweeter and cooler. The bank was a grassy drop off, and Albert was caught by surprise when, as he tried to kneel forward, his boot slid, and suddenly he splashed knee-deep into the river. He swore, loudly. Arthur got up to see what was going on, and when he saw Albert standing there, half-stranded in the river with his arms out and his pants soaked, he started laughing.

“What the hell’d you get into?” he said.

“I slipped,” said Albert, looking around. “Is there anything that wants to eat me in here?”

“Not really,” said Arthur. He steadied his stance on the river bank and held out his hand. Albert took it and Arthur hauled him in and slapped him on the back a couple times and straightened his collar and dusted off his shoulders. “The beavers bite, but generally speaking, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Albert blushed, almost furiously. He sat down in the grass then, and took off his boots to shake the water out. “Well I pity any beaver that’s afraid of this imbecile.”

“You’re not not an imbecile,” said Arthur. “These banks are slippery.”

“I should be more careful.”

“That, Mr. Mason, is the story of your life.”

Albert put his boots back on. The sun was starting to get a little weak, going down past the trees, and the air was getting a chill. He got to his feet and sighed. “I believe I’m finished here,” he said. “Would you prefer to camp, or should we head back to the city? I’d love to get some shots of the orchids around here, but I won’t lie when I say this place makes me itch.”

“Let’s head back,” said Arthur, helping Albert dismantle his camera from the tripod. “I agree with you. I more or less despise camping too often in the marsh. We can come back next week, look for orchids.”

"I believe I got some good shots today,” he said, sighing. He watched Arthur with a sense of pride in his heart. Hands on his hips, he admired. He wished to talk more but was not quite sure what to say, even after all this time. He wanted to say something about the way he felt, anything, but the way he felt was more or less wayward to his ability with language, and the words didn’t make sense. It was all too dispersed, like buckshot caught in mid-air.

Meanwhile, Arthur picked up the tripod and folded it under his arm. Full of action, he exhaled and proceeded to lash it all up to Albert’s horse, Martha. He then put his hands on his hips, hung his head and looked back to Albert. Eventually though, he broke the moment with a small grin. “Let’s follow the river back,” he said. “Instead of taking the road.”

Albert straightened up, surprised by this. “Is that safe?”

Arthur shrugged. “Probably not,” he said as he mounted his white horse. “But I’ll keep you safe. Come on.”

Albert placed his hat on his head. He followed.

They rode along the river a little ways, going slowly. The sun went down, angling behind the trees and the sky became a long combination of fiery oranges and deep cerulean. Eventually, the night grew dark. They came across a rundown pier after about an hour or so, and bobbing there to its anchor was a house boat that neither of them had ever seen before. It seemed inhabited, so out of curiosity, they knocked on the door, and when no one came, they went inside to explore and see what was going on. All the lights were on and there was music playing from a gramophone, but nobody was home.

Arthur and Albert looked at one another. They felt funny being inside the house boat, like they might get caught by the ghost or hillbilly who owned it, so they went back outside and stood on the little boardwalk, surveying the lights and how they glanced off the river as beautiful orbs instead. The music from the house boat made the Bluewater Marsh feel alive with a party, almost haunted. There were gators nearby but they seemed disinterested in the men.

Arthur wanted badly to sketch the boat. It was something he would normally do, but he thought it would be strange to take the time to do so in the moment. It was so lovely in the evening. He made a mental picture, taking note of its angles and the way that the light shining from its insides balanced with the darkness of the marsh in dynamic fashion. He thought about how he felt. He thought about the whimsical beauty and the happenstance of finding such a strange thing so abandoned in the southern wilderness. He looked at Albert then and wondered if he felt the same, only with taking pictures. There was something so special, he though. The randomness, and the romance.

Arthur took a deep breath, suddenly all full of feelings. The feelings came without his permission. That was not a bad thing. Before he could say or do anything, Albert had become dreamy and seemed to breath a little bigger, like he was filling up with the natural wonder of the sky. He was looking at the boat and said, “I must say, Arthur. These days, and our time together—I find myself getting lost. I’m sure I sound like a school boy, but I’ve never had a friend like you. I don’t want the nights to end.” He sort of laughed to himself, like he was not sure of what he was trying to say.

“That means something,” said Arthur, glancing at him. "I get it."

“If anybody actually lives in this boat, I wonder what their life is like.”

Arthur looked back to the boat. “Who knows."

“Yes,” said Albert. “Who knows.”

As they continued to look on at the boat then in its well-lit abandon, they both reveled in the freedom such a clear night in the lonely marsh could afford. The music from the boat went through their blood and into their bones and lived there.

“There really is music playing, correct?” said Albert. “Or have I gone mad.”

“No, there’s music,” said Arthur.

He forgot the boredom, forgot the days gone by and all of his inhibitions. Their hands touched briefly. It was not a bother to either of them. But then that brief touch turned extended, like an unexpected exchange of permission, given and received, back and forth, until at some point, their fingers laced together, and they held hands. The moment was charged, as if with a current of electricity, and at once, they both looked down, surprised. Arthur’s hand was rough and warm where Albert’s was softer. With this, they each seemed to get ahold of what they needed from the other. They then looked at each other, and it was vulnerable, and their joint confusion sparked opportunity. Arthur saw it and made the move.

He leaned in, sort of fast, like he thought he might otherwise lose his nerve. Their mouths locked together into a certain kiss. For a moment, what he’d done felt unreal, like a dream. But sooner or later, feeling his hand along the soft of Albert’s throat, and then to the back of his neck, as Albert held onto his wrist just to keep him there, he knew that it was solid. It was true. The blood pumping between them was a million miles per hour even as the earth seemed to turn in slow motion. It deepened. When they parted, their mouths made a sound that reminded them both that their bodies were alive. 

They looked down first, at their muddy boots, then up at each other, still holding hands, almost disbelieving but that gave way quickly to a quiet and communal joy that they both hid well beneath stoic smiles and warm cheeks, and then they looked back out at the water, at the house boat.

When they heard men coming up the path some ways behind them, a stagecoach on a late shipment to the general store in St. Denis, they each dropped their hands into their pockets on instinct, infused with a silent speed and pretended to be just two old friends standing close to one another on the boardwalk. After the stagecoach went past, Arthur took a deep breath.

“Come on,” he said to Albert, still with his hands in his pockets. “Let’s get you home.”

They got back on their horses, rode silently at a gallop for most of the way, but they spoke some as they went, about this or that, as they always had something to share between them. When they got to the saloon, they tied up the old girls. Albert usually boarded Martha in the local stable, but he said she would be okay for the night. Arthur walked with him through the busy saloon and up the stairs and all the way to the door. The piano was going and it was raucous. Nobody noticed them. Albert turned the key and went inside. Arthur leaned in a gentlemanly fashion against the door frame but he did not enter. There was a moment in which they paused to see if anything else might happen, but even as their hearts would have it they were not ready for that yet.

“I’ll come calling next week then,” said Arthur. “Tuesday morning. We’ll go find some orchids.”

Albert was smiling. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur gave him a quiet grin, glanced down to his boots and then he straightened up off the door frame and slapped it once as if to make a clean break in the moment. “Goodnight, Albert,” he said.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur backed away and turned to recede back down the hallway. Albert watched him go. He stood for a moment, waiting, even when Arthur had gone down the stairs and disappeared, as he feared his knees may buckle if he moved too soon.

Arthur rode all the way back to Clemens Point feeling free and like he’d struck some sort of jackpot. The emotion was widespread all over his body and he couldn’t pin it down. He tied up his girl Amelia and walked to his tent without really speaking to anyone. It was late and most were asleep, but Karen was singing with Javier at the fire, and the drunken Reverend tried asking him to sit, but he declined. He felt sympathy for the old man, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to be alone. It was still like coming awake from a dream, and he wasn’t prepared yet.

Arthur was living two lives, that was for certain. One was better and more awake than the other. He pulled his tent flaps closed, took off his boots, loosened his gun belt and lay down to sleep. There was no time to consider the logic behind all that lie in store for him. He had no idea what the goddam hell he was doing. But whatever this was, this thing he had going, it was his.


	4. Because I love you. Why else?

_Blessed are the Peacemakers, _Micah had said. Arthur had been nervous for the parlay. He went with Dutch anyway, feeling he’d been remiss lately, absent, that he owed it to the gang.

The night that Mary Beth found him, he had fallen off his horse Amelia right outside the camp. Once they got him back to his tent, she sat with him. She stayed all night, until morning. Miss Grimshaw tried kicking her out around midnight, but Mary Beth told the old bitch to fuck off. She had never really used language like that before, not really. But he was shot, and as Charles had deduced, it looked like he had cauterized the wound himself. Because of this, it was closed. It wasn’t festering, but he had broken ribs, too. The bruises were spread all out over the left side of his chest like mean flowers, and he seemed deeply disoriented, and badly concussed. He had been tied up, strung up, probably tortured. You could see the ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. His face was black and blue. Some blood had matted his hair in the front, but she took care of that with a pan of warm water and a wash cloth. She fed him some water, first with a spoon, and when he came to a little bit, helped him sip from a cup. She had never seen him so broken, didn’t know he could be. In the years since she had joined up with Dutch’s boys, he always seemed the strongest of them, the most sturdy, as a tree.

On the fourth night, around ten or so, she was washing his clothes in the lake with a washboard by the light of the moon. She waited until the late evening to do this. She did not want to be bothered. That night, however, Abigail came, looking for her.

“Arthur is asking for you,” she said. “He’s up and moving.”

Mary Beth left his clothes in a bucket by the pier.

When she got there and pulled the tent flaps back, it was like Abigail had said. He was up. Or, he was sitting up. He had his feet on the ground. He had been writing something. There was a fountain pen on the bedside table, and he was sealing an envelope. The outside of the envelope was blank. When he saw her, he smiled, looking mighty weary, but alive.

She sat down on the bed beside him. She stretched her arms around him as far as they would go and placed her head on his shoulder. “You’re moving,” she said.

“That, I am,” he said. It seemed to take a great deal out of him. Every time he moved, his breathing was disturbed. “My damn rib cage,” he said. “You know, I have been shot in the leg, and it hurt less to move.”

Mary Beth laughed a little. But in truth she was close to crying. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts,” he said. “But I think mostly I’m just thirsty.”

“Oh.” She got up. There was a pitcher of water on the shaving table. She brought it to him.

“Thank you,” he said. He took a long drink straight from it. He seemed together, clear, like the concussion or whatever it was had mitigated. He set the pitcher down and leaned forward with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyeballs. “Mary Beth.”

“Yes?”

“I need to—ask a sort of favor from you.”

“Sure,” she said. “Anything.”

He picked up his face. He handed her the envelope. “I need you to deliver this to someone,” he said. “His name is Albert Mason. He’s a nature photographer, living in St. Denis. I’ve been sort of helping him out with a project. I was supposed to meet him yesterday, but obviously I never showed, and I ain't in no shape to ride yet. I don’t want him to think I stood him up on purpose. Can you do that for me?”

Mary Beth looked at the envelope, then at Arthur. “Of course,” she said. She placed the envelope in her pocket.

“I’d use the post,” said Arthur, “but lord knows how long that’ll take. Bring Marston with you, or Charles. I don’t want you riding all the way to St. Denis alone.”

“Okay, Arthur,” she said, happy to help. “I can do that.”

“He’s real nice,” said Arthur. “Mr. Mason. You’ll like him. He’s boarding at the high saloon in town. Just ask the bartender when you get there. He’ll direct you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you, Mary Beth,” he said. He took a deep breath. His lungs were strong, but the pain from his ribs hindered him a great deal. He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His hair was getting long. His beard was growing in. The tent smelled medicinal. It was almost dizzying, an effect of the salves Charles had been applying to the wound in his shoulder. Arthur scratched at the scruff on his neck a little and lamented then that he was, once more, exhausted.

“Let me get you some dinner,” she said. “There’s stew leftover. I can heat it.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to,” she said. She placed her hand on his knee, in a reassuring manner.

She was in love with him. She knew he would never love her back at this point, but love is just love.

The next morning, Mary Beth set out with John, and the two of them rode to St. Denis. They took the roads. Neither of them had been to St. Denis before, so they were going off signage and instructions given to them by Hosea. Mostly they just ended up following the train tracks. At one point, Mary Beth’s horse spooked at the presence of a gator, but John shot it with his sidearm at alarming speed and it scurried away. The swamps, it turned out, were full of horrors.

When they got there, it was not difficult to find the saloon. The bartender was jovial and told them that Mr. Mason was upstairs in his room, that he had not yet come down for the day. He directed them to the last room on the right, on the second floor. “Room six,” he said.

John and Mary Beth went upstairs to room six. When they got to the red door, they were not entirely sure what to expect.

“What did Arthur say about this guy?” said John.

“Just that he’s a nature photographer,” said Mary Beth. “That he’s been helping him out with a project, and that he felt badly about missing their appointment. He said he was real nice.”

John sighed. “Okay.” He had his hair knotted back off his face. He took a deep breath, and he knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door opened, eagerly, and there was a man of modest size—about as big as John, but not as wiry. He had a beard and soft eyes. He wore a violet collared shirt made of what looked like expensive fabric. “Oh," he said. He looked surprised, as if he were expecting somebody different. “Hello. How can I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Mason?” said John.

“That’s me,” he said. He opened the door a little wider. 

“Good,” said John. He had the envelope in his gloved hand. “Good. I’m John, this is Mary Beth. We're friends of Arthur Morgan."

Albert's face sort of fell. He all but froze. "Arthur?" he said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah," said John. "Yeah, it's fine. But he got himself into a pretty ugly scrape a few a days ago, and he felt bad about missing your appointment. He, uh, he asked us to bring you this."

He handed Albert the letter. Albert looked at it, then he looked back at John. "An ugly scrape? Is he hurt badly?"

"No," said John. "Or, well, he'll be fine. Just not really up to riding horses yet."

Albert had these sort of eyes you could get a little lost in. They had a sparkle to them, a quiet but certain kindness, even when desperately worried. “I see."

“Read his letter,” said Mary Beth, her hands folded in front of her. "He really is fine."

Albert studied her, then nodded once, perhaps unconvinced. He did not ask again. Instead, he seemed to catch his bearings. He folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. He had a sheen about him, a fine finish, like he knew how to operate in almost any social situation. “Would you two like to come in?” he said. “It's the least I can do for your trouble. I’ve just made a pot of tea.”

John and Mary Beth looked at each other. They both shrugged. “Sure,” said John. “What kind of tea?”

“Earl Grey, I believe.”

“Sounds fancy,” said Mary Beth, smiling.

Albert was impressed by her. It was easy to tell. He smiled with his sad eyes. “I assure you, it is anything but fancy. Mary Beth, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“And John,” said Albert.

John nodded.

“Well, come in then, Mary Beth and John,” he said. “Any friends of Arthur’s are friends of mine.”

They followed Albert through the door. Albert closed it, then ushered them to a little sunny living area by the window with a plush, blue sofa and a couple of parlor chairs. There was a balcony right outside, and the French doors were thrown open, letting in a lovely breeze and the bustling sounds of the city below. The room was mostly neat. “I apologize for the mess,” he said. "Make yourselves at home."

He went to the kitchenette to pour the tea. Mary Beth sat politely, admiring the dainty, moneyed quality of the room. There were little hanging Chinese lanterns in the window that made her feel romantic. John looked around. He was curious. There were a few clotheslines hanging in one of the dark corners across from the bed, pinned with a multitude of photographs. John examined them, holding his hands behind his back. He noticed the camera then, and the deconstructed tripod leaning by the door.

“So,” he said. “Mr. Mason.”

“Yes?”

“Arthur says you’re a…nature photographer?”

“That’s right,” said Albert. He brought the tray with the tea to the little table in the sitting area. Mary Beth straightened up, excited for the Earl Grey tea. “I hail from Philadelphia originally, but I recently set out with hopes of making a name for myself, in the art. Arthur has been—well mostly he’s been protecting me.”

“Like a bodyguard?” said Mary Beth.

Albert smiled at this. “A little,” he said. “More like, he knows his way around the wilderness, and, love it as I do, I do not. We met each other on happenstance out in West Elizabeth some months ago, struck up a partnership."

“There are a lot of pictures of Arthur up here,” said John. “They’re really something.”

“Well, he is quite photogenic,” said Albert. “Would you like sugar, or lemon in your tea?”

“Sure,” said John. He came and sat down in one of the chairs. He took off his hat and balanced it on his knee. Albert served the tea. They all sipped judiciously. Mary Beth enjoyed it a great deal—the ceremony, and the lovely tea cups and saucers with playful patterns of suns and ants and umbrellas and things on the porcelain. John wasn’t sure. He thought the tea just more or less tasted like flowers, but maybe that’s what it was supposed to taste like. He put the cup and saucer down on the table. “So you and Arthur are pretty good friends.”

“That, we are,” said Albert. He met John head-on with his eyes. He was a very astute and upright man, John thought. Straightforward, well-mannered and easy to be around. But then he looked away nervously, folded his hands in his lap. “I was very worried when he didn’t show. That’s not like him.”

“No, it’s not,” said John, watching him. “Arthur is a man of his word. I hope you can forgive him.”

"Oh, of course,” said Albert. He was toying with the hem of his shirt. He smiled without looking up.

Mary Beth sensed his unease. She set down her tea. She reached forward to place her hand on his hand. “He’s fine,” she urged, squeezing once. “He just needs time. Try not to worry too much.”

He was taken with her. She was very sweet. “Thank you, Mary Beth. I shall try.”

She picked her cup back up and drank more tea. “This is really good,” she said. "I've never had this sort of tea before."

“I’m glad you like it,” said Albert.

“It tastes like flowers,” said John, feeling stupid for having spoken, but now committed to the sentiment. “Real floral,” he continued, awkwardly. “Sort of like, lilac or something. Maybe jasmine? Jesus, I don’t know.”

But Albert just gazed at him, disarming. “That is a genius interpretation, and spot on. I shall remember that.”

John smiled, flattered, in spite of himself.

As they rode out of town, John waited until they were well beyond the confines of the city, and out in the pretty but dangerous quietude of the bayou. Then, he stopped them. He wanted to ride along the lake a little bit, see the water, and she was amiable to this. So they took a left turn and went further south, cutting over just east of Braithwaite Manor. When they got to the shore, they dismounted their horses and went to throw rocks into the water. The weather was warm. John wished he’d brought his fishing rod.

“Look at the birds,” said Mary Beth, enchanted. “A blue heron. It’s must be four feet tall.”

“Yeah,” said John, pensive. He picked up a long, flat rock, skipped it across the stillness of the lake. Part of why he'd wanted to take this detour was to talk about something. “Hey, Mary Beth," he said.

“Yeah?”

"You know Arthur pretty well, right?" he said. "Like, you guys is friends."

"Yeah, I think so," she said. 

He sighed. “Has he ever said anything else to you? About Albert?"

“Not before yesterday," she said. "Why?"

“I don’t know,” said John. “I just—did you pick up on a…kind of vibe back there? Or something?” He skipped another rock.

“A vibe?”

“I just mean, Albert was pretty worried, don’t you think? Like, real worried."

“Yeah,” she said, her skirt rustling in the breeze. “He was worried. I saw it, too.”

“And all those pictures?” John went on. “I don’t know if you saw, but those ones of Arthur, they were taken in a dozen or more places. Like, they been traveling a lot together. And he's been gone so much, sometimes for a week, sometimes two. He comes back, his head’s in the clouds. Now, he has us hand-delivering this letter that’s too urgent for the post. And there was just...a vibe.”

Mary Beth was trying to follow. She had picked a little bushel of wildflowers. She was standing, staring at him. “What are you thinking?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know—do you think, maybe they’re like, more than friends?”

“You mean like lovers?” she said.

John looked at her. “Maybe. Yeah.”

Her face changed. At first, she was confused, but then it was like gears turning, coming together behind her eyes. “Golly,” she said, looking down at the wildflowers. “I guess. Maybe?”

“You're sure he hasn't said anything that might indicate...?"

“No,” she said, looking back at the water. “No. I mean, I don't think so.”

John sighed. He dug up a big old rock then with the toe of his boot, the size of a baseball. He bent over, picked it up. He studied its weight, its curves and its roughness. “Arthur is so goddam secretive," he said. “I know it’s none of my business.” He chucked the rock into the low tide and dusted his hands together. "I'm just curious. About his life."

Mary Beth was looking at the silver lake and how it bent off into the sky. The sunlight soaked right into it and made it sparkle. She let go of the wildflowers. They caught into the wind and went into the water.

“He was really nice,” said John. “Albert. Don’t you think? Either way, I get why Arthur would like spending time with him. It's different.”

The wildflowers kind of changed colors when they got all wet like that. Mary Beth wasn’t sad, not really. She was just thinking. “Yeah it is,” she said.

After they were gone, Albert left the tea cups and the tea pot on the table and went and sat down on the edge of his bed. He picked up Arthur’s letter, opened the envelope gingerly and unfolded the piece of paper within. 

_Dearest Albert,_

_I hope you are well, and that you have been keeping safe and not getting yourself into too much trouble out in the wild without me. I am mighty sorry that I missed our appointment. Truth be told, I met with a bad character while out on the range, and he messed me up pretty bad. So bad, it’s had me flat on my back since Thursday. I am fine though. Please do not worry. I got a feeling that you will, because you are prone to do so, but I promise that I am healing, and the moment I am able to get on my horse, I will be there, and we will find you those orchids. I estimate another week, maybe two. I wish I could give you an exact date, but I don’t want to make another promise to you that I cannot keep._

_I hope I am not overstepping when I say that I have missed you something fierce, Mr. Mason. I am very much looking forward to seeing you again. I pray that I have not missed my chance, and that you feel the same._

_With love,_

_Arthur Morgan _

Albert set the letter down on the bed. He placed his hand on top of it. He closed his eyes and imagined Arthur’s kiss beside the houseboat in the marsh. He had been nursing these thoughts, along with his nerves and confusion for days now, ever since Arthur did not show when he said he would. Sometimes, their kiss didn't seem real, but other times, it was so real, he lost his sense of almost everything else. The visit from John and Mary Beth had comforted him some, but seeing them there and knowing they would be returning to Arthur, wherever Arthur was, hurt, and leaving Albert alone to his hectic paranoia and this desperately romantic letter had mostly increased his anxieties. Even as he found himself enormously relieved, the more time he spent alone with his thoughts and reverie over his feelings, the more he could sense himself cracked and wide open, his insides exposed to the world. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

So he carefully folded the letter back into its envelope, and he tucked it into the drawer of his bedside table. He then got up and put on his shoes, and he got his camera, and he left and locked the door behind him, and he went downstairs and had a drink with the bartender who was nice and easy to talk to. He then took a walk around the city to take as many pictures of the urban dwellers in their natural habitat as he could. He knew that Arthur would appreciate them when he saw. He lingered longest in the park, where a scientist with a remote control boat was performing his magics for a small crowd at the little manmade lake there. A couple of interested bystanders asked Albert if he worked for the newspaper, and Albert just said no. _No, no. I’m just your average voyeur with a camera, _he said. _Don’t mind me. _They found him charming, as many people did, though he never understood why.

Over the next couple weeks, Albert kept himself very busy. He read the new Henry James, a short novel called _The Turn of the Screw, _which he found dreadful and boring. He smoked far too much, drank too much gin, and ate little but for what they served at the bar. He became a fixture in the parlor room down there. A tall man in a tall hat who knew card tricks swept in one night and taught him how to play poker. With a bit of beginner’s luck, Albert won a $25 pot on two pair: aces over tens. The tall man had an impressive mustache, said his name was Trelawny. “You look me up if you’re ever in Rhodes, dear boy,” he said. “I’ve got a dalliance with the fence there. He’ll host poker games in the evening to your heart’s content if you mention my name.” He then tipped his hat. He was on his way.

Albert was a sociable man, but whenever he returned to his room in the evenings, he felt overcome with loneliness and longing. He had experienced romance before with women, and that was fine, but it was not like this. This was a deep and existential pain that seemed to transcend the stupidity of youthful infatuation and all of its dramatic overtones. So he turned to developing his pictures with a kind of obsessiveness he had not channeled in some years. When he had been in university at Haverford, there were times he practically lived in the dark room. He loved his art, it was true. Among other things these days.

It was exactly thirteen days gone by when, one evening, finally, as Albert sat in his parlor chair, reading yet another terrible novel and smoking a cigarette by the light of his pretty Chinese lanterns, there came a knock on his door. He looked up.

When he opened the door, it was Arthur, looking tall and hale, though perhaps a little gaunt in the face. His hair was touching his shoulders, combed neatly behind his ears. He held his hat with two hands in front of him and stood with his regularly gallant posture. He smiled and said, “Hey there.”

Albert stared, feeling a little like a buffoon, as he often did in these moments. He forgot everything. All of it. The pictures in the park. The magician. The bad novels. The loneliness and all the cigarettes. Every single frivolity he had experienced these past weeks alone.

“It is good to see you,” he said, smiling with weary content.

"Is it too late?" said Arthur. "I came as soon as I could."

"It is never too late," said Albert, stepping aside and holding the door. "Come in, dear friend."


	5. I was a bird on the wire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a worm on a hook  
Like a knight from some old-fashioned book  
I have saved all my ribbons for thee
> 
> -Leonard Cohen, "[Bird on the Wire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8fT7rnRotY)"

After she returned from St. Denis, Mary Beth spent the next week or so thinking and looking at Arthur from afar. Slowly, he was starting to move around the camp and do things for himself, and this reassured her and made her happy. He played a couple hands of poker with John, had dinner by the fire, went down to the water, but he didn’t seem interested in fishing. Mostly he seemed to just be drawing pictures. He spoke little. He did not really speak to Dutch or Hosea. There seemed to be something going on there and it had been going on for a while, but it was getting deeper, and Dutch seemed insecure, frequently checking on Arthur through side channels, but the two of them did not talk. Arthur held everything tightly inside, and he was not really talking to anyone about what had happened with Colm. Not even Hosea. Mary Beth asked him but he only smiled in his handsome way. He wouldn’t worry her, and though she knew it was walls, he was a tough cookie, and she did not know how to bring them down.

In any case, he was still calm and handsome, and his hair was getting longer. She brought him a lot of books to read, mostly shit penny novels she stole from the general store in Rhodes, a couple she even paid for. He would polish them off in an afternoon. She told him it was important for him to read crap as well as classics if he was to become a true gentleman of culture in the world, and this made him laugh, which relieved her. They walked together. He healed quickly and though he could not take sharp, quick breaths without pain, his bruises were getting somewhat better, and his ribs seemed to improve to such lengths that Charles, who had endured broken ribs in the past, speculated that perhaps Arthur had only bruised a couple ribs round the side. That none were broken. This seemed to relieve Arthur, but again, he did not talk on it much.

Meanwhile, Mary Beth could not really stop thinking about Albert Mason, a wholesome man who, regardless of intension, seemed to care about Arthur. A lot. But she was unlike John, who kind of always just had his hand on the truth, and instead, she tended to see what she wanted to see. She hung out with Arthur but he did not talk about Albert. She knew that if he wanted to talk about it, he would eventually. It was not important to her, what was really going on, as long as he was okay.

John, on the other hand, was very curious. He could not stop thinking about it and he would follow Mary Beth down to the water in the evenings where she would be washing clothes and ask her questions about Arthur and whether he had said anything. He was like a little old lady, she thought. He could not help himself. Once while John and Mary Beth were sitting down and smoking by the water, Arthur came down to join them. Mary Beth rolled him one neat cigarette and he lit it himself with a match off the sole of his boot. The color was back in his cheeks now as it had been almost two whole weeks. They all sat watching the birds flying in V-shapes in the sky and the steelhead trout doing flips in the twilight water. The stars were so bright it was like they were on fire, and after a little while of this, just smoking and sitting in a row on the sand, John started talking.

“So,” he said, glancing past Mary Beth, to Arthur. “Arthur. You gonna go see Albert soon? You seem like you’re back on your feet.”

“As soon as I can get on a horse, sure,” said Arthur. He seemed disinterested in the conversation.

“Did we tell you he made us tea?” said John.

Arthur gave him a funny look. “Tea?” he said.

“Yeah,” said John. “Some kind of weird tea. It was good. What was it called again, Mary Beth?”

“Earl Grey,” she said.

“Right,” said John. “Earl Grey.”

“Sounds like something out of Dickens, don’t it?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur smiled at her. “Little bit,” he said, smoking.

“Anyway,” said John. He took a drag. “He seemed like a really nice guy. Albert.”

“That, he is,” said Arthur, watching the lake. A sea bird flew down in an attempt to pick something out of the water with a fair amount of speed, came up empty. “How’d he seem?” he said.

John looked right at him and seized upon the opportunity. “What do you mean?”

Arthur scratched at his beard, smoked, stayed staring into the scenery. His eyes did not break from nature for a second. “I mean how’d he seem,” he said. “It ain’t a complicated question.”

John glanced at Mary Beth.

“He was worried,” she said, looking down at her cigarette. She smoked it, felt it getting low, trashed it in the sand.

“Real worried,” said John. “About you. He seemed to know you pretty well.”

Arthur looked down at his hands, took a drag, tossed the cigarette into the water. He opened up a little then, to their surprise. “We’re pretty good friends,” he said, elbows resting on his knees. “Sorry I never mentioned him before.”

“It’s okay,” said Mary Beth. She put her head on his shoulder. He was very sturdy and she liked the way he felt beside her, as a friend. “Not everything is for talking about, you know?”

“I suppose,” said Arthur.

The divulgence was not enough for John but he knew he was too eager and he was also good at reading moments, and he was good at reading Arthur, too. He let this one be. He finished his cigarette and tossed it out with the others. Then he looked back at the water and thought about Abigail. “I was thinking of maybe…I don’t know. Taking Jack fishing tomorrow. What do you think, Morgan?” he said.

“I think it’s about damn time,” said Arthur.

“You know any good spots?”

“Not really,” said Arthur. “Talk to Javier, though. I know he’s been scouting the shores for fish a lot lately.”

“Okay.”

“Arthur,” said Mary Beth, wistful. It seemed there was a meteor shower overhead. It was raining pretty things in the sky. She made a wish.

“Yes, Mary Beth?”

“I’m glad you’re doin better,” she said, looking at him. “Real glad.”

He sighed. “Yeah, me, too,” he said. “Thanks, Mary Beth.”

“You’re welcome, Arthur.”

They sat for a little while longer, feeling younger than they were, soaking in the celestial majesty and counting the stars.

When Arthur finally felt up to getting on his horse, he walked up the lake to a private spot and he cleaned himself of all the stench of his isolation and loneliness. He combed his hair neatly and tried to see about being presentable as a man in the world. He felt feral but also somehow like a kept child. He trimmed his beard, then he got on his horse and told Mary Beth of his business in St. Denis. He was leaving kind of late in the day, and she wondered aloud when it was he would return.

“I’m not sure,” said Arthur, finding his feet in the stirrups. Amelia was a small and beautiful horse, and she seemed comforted to have him back again. “Anybody asks, I’m just on an errand. I ain’t got a timeline though.”

“Okay, Arthur.”

“You been real good to me, Mary Beth,” he said. She was standing petting Amelia’s white mane. “You been a wonderful friend. I appreciate it, all of it. I wish I could repay you, but I don’t know that I can.”

“Please, Arthur,” she said, smiling up at him and shaking her head. “No need to repay me. You ain’t nothing but a fool for saying such things.”

“Well I do try to impress you so but I know how often I fail.”

She laughed, patted Amelia on the cheek. “Go on,” she said, looking at the horse. “Just be careful out there, Arthur. Go slow. You ain’t 100%.”

“I will.”

“Give Albert my highest regards.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tipped his hat, as a gentleman, and rode away. She watched him go, her pale skirt swooshing in the southern breeze. For many years now, Mary Beth had been telling herself stories as a means of survival. She had always fancied Arthur as more a knight than an outlaw. Of course that was her girlish brain, but still. Even the way he rode that white horse, it was like the cosmos agreed. He was shiny. He deserved more than this. She sighed and turned around to face the camp, and Karen was waving at her from afar. “Mary Beth!” she said. “You ready?”

They were going to the Rhodes Parlor House to scam some rich dandies out of their ill-earned money. “I’m coming,” she said.

“I got you some lipstick from Molly,” said Karen. “We’re making you look like a harlot!”

Mary Beth laughed to herself as she went.

Arthur rode slow and maintained a sturdy posture on his horse. It had only been a few weeks, and it was still the south, but how he had missed the air, and the sounds of the sky and the wind as it bent through the tupelo trees. Riding hurt. It was full of abrupt and jerky motion that he did his best to ignore. He was sitting upright with his hands on the reins and soldiered forth. It was a thing he was used to—soldiering forth—and anyway, he could not for the life of him imagine spending one more monotonous night down at the camp in Clemens Point. The sounds of the voices there had been wearing him thin, and the clanking of the pots and pans and the moaning tedium of Dutch’s gramophone playing something longwinded and wistful over the sounds of his bitching with Molly had recently begun to fill Arthur with shame and dread and annoyance and regret.

Even still, as he rode away that evening, he knew that he was leaving something behind in Mary Beth. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. Whatever potential there was there, it was gone now. He was a man, and he had thought of her fondly many times. He knew how women worked and Mary Beth was full of quiet looks and easy tells, tells he had given into once or twice in the time since he’d known her, but not anymore. He hoped he had not relied on her too much those past weeks.

Overall, he was unable to account for what she meant to him, as he was not very in touch with the things he felt beyond the impressionistic effects they inspired. She was kind and beautiful, but he did not want her that way, and even if he did, in some ways, want her, the last thing the world needed was another of his illegitimate children, running around, trapped inside a sad and lonesome existence. Her friendship was very important to him any how. He sensed its unconditional nature, and he knew that was rare for him, even amongst women who’d always held, for some reason, a penchant for fussing over his security as if he were a helpless creature even as he was not, and it had been like this since he was young. He was grateful and hoped to preserve her devotion with his own, though he would not have blamed her if she drifted away from him to find her own way and another man who would love her how she deserved. He just thought that, like him, she was prone to pleasing others almost like a compulsion, and he hoped that she did not come to rely too strongly on this aspect of herself. For he had fallen prey to that mistake, and it had cost him many years and in some ways, was still costing him to this day, even as he didn’t really know it.

Seeing Albert that night was like being crushed by a boulder. He was flattened and then at ease. Arthur realized something, which was that when you really know someone, and they really know you, not seeing them for a while does not cause disintegration of the ties that bind you. He, perhaps, did not realize how well Albert seemed to know him until that night. It took him for a fool.

“How are you?” Albert said as he closed the door behind them. His eyebrows went up with worry so you could see the little line in between them.

“I’m okay,” said Arthur. He held his hat with two hands in front of him. Glancing around he could see all of the things in the room and how they reminded him of Albert. Everything seemed neatly made and curated. He could tell which parts were just the hotel and which parts were Albert and his artistic regimen. There were the photographs, the little Chinese lanterns, a fine porcelain tea set and stacks and stacks of books. Arthur set his hat down on the purple sofa. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Albert, smiling after Arthur with a kind of weariness and relief. “John and Mary Beth came to see me.”

“I know they did,” said Arthur, taking a step toward him.

“They said you’d been in a bad scrape. Are you all right?”

Arthur nodded. “Mostly.”

“What happened?” said Albert. He was eager, but Arthur could tell he was trying to hold back. “I mean—will you tell me what happened?”

Arthur sighed. He spoke calmly. The room was dim, lit only with the Chinese lanterns and one little lamp by the window where he could tell Albert had been reading. “You remember when we got ambushed by those rough fellers out in the Big Valley that time?” he said.

“Of course,” said Albert. “How could I forget?”

“Well, it turns out that weren’t random. They wanted me, and, a few weeks ago, they got me. Or, their friends did, and their boss.”

Albert listened. “Why?” he said.

“Because,” said Arthur, “before you I ain’t much consorted with good people all that often, Albert. The man who—well let’s just say he’s a sorry son of a bitch and there’s a lot of bad blood. But it’s over now, and I’m alive.”

Outside, there was a bird on a wire, singing softly to the moon. Arthur wondered what kind of bird that was, singing in the nighttime. It was not so late that the tavern had silenced though, and you could hear the faint drumming of the voices below.

Albert smiled, nervous. “All right.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Albert studied Arthur then with a very strong focus. It was the kind of face he usually saved for his pictures, like he was searching for the thing that told the story. “If you say so,” he said.

Arthur went over to the photographs hanging from the clothesline. He sat down on the bed. It creaked beneath his weight. He hunched a little and placed his head in his hands. “The truth is,” he went on, feeling tired, “I’m just—I’ve been very bored, Albert. My life is filled with tedium. These past weeks, mostly all I did was read trashy novels given to me by Mary Beth, draw pictures of the water, heal, and think about you. I am relieved to be here.”

Albert had his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers with a light shirt, the collar undone. He came over and sat beside Arthur on the bed. “Does Mary Beth like to read?” he said.

“Very much,” said Arthur. “She reads more than anyone I know, and she reads more than just crap. But I guess she’s on some sort of crap spree lately, and she was dragging me along with her.”

Albert laughed at this, glanced. “She seems lovely.”

“She is,” said Arthur. “She’s a very good friend.”

Albert took a deep breath. He removed his hands from his pockets and placed them in his lap, looking at them. “I thought of you a lot as well, these past couple of weeks,” he said, smiling to himself. “And good god, have I been bored.”

Arthur found this amusing. “What you been up to?”

“Oh, you know,” said Albert. “The usual. Playing poker with magicians and taking pictures of French women holding balloons in the park.”

“Sounds incredibly strange to me,” said Arthur.

“I’ve also been reading,” he said. “Some things in Harper’s. Henry James. Dreadful stuff, bored me about to death. I think I would have preferred the crap spree with Mary Beth.”

“Well, that’s your own fault,” said Arthur. “If there’s anyone who deserved to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for his actions, it is Henry James.”

Albert chuckled. “Read him, have you?”

Arthur sort of waved this off. “I’ve read everything,” he said. “James is by far the worst. There are instruction manuals with more verve, if you ask me.”

Albert became wistful. “I missed you,” he said. “That was the consensus at the end of each day.”

“Yeah, me, too,” said Arthur. With little hesitation then, he picked up Albert’s hand. He studied the knuckles and how they were not so scarred as his own. He felt hurried, deep inside his chest. With his thumb, he traced the skin. Albert’s hands were not small. They were not as big as Arthur’s but they were not small. They were just finer.

They looked at each other then, at the same time, as if summoned. Arthur felt himself getting lost. “I’m feeling things,” he said, strangely.

Albert was there with him, inconspicuous in his anxieties. He seemed to feel the same way, however. “Me, too,” he said.

Arthur took a breath then, and they kissed, for the second time in their entire lives. It had been some weeks coming, and they were weightless from it. Nothing had changed. Their need, if anything, had actualized with time. This kiss was deeper and more meaningful than the last. For they had already done it once, and they knew it would work.

They parted briefly, as if to catch their breath and to look at one another in a sort of new awe. They were not simple men, but this thing between them, it was simple. They kissed again, and this time, it escalated. They were feeling past buttons and collars now, slipping out of their suspenders. Arthur leaned in to press Albert’s back to the bedspread. It was an instinct he understood, and Albert gave easily, tugging him closer by the collar, then by the waist. With his lips to Albert’s throat, Arthur felt himself letting go, but the moment he placed his full weight on his hands in front of him and began to lower, his left side seized painfully. The pain was bright and fast. It shot through out of nowhere and took over as an electric current, and he froze. He grunted loud, hung his head and took a deep breath through his nose, constricting his lungs so as not to expand them too quickly, as that hurt as well. He was disappointed and pissed off. The atmosphere, whatever it was between them sending them on their way, it dissolved instantly.

“Arthur?” said Albert. He hauled him up, back sitting with his feet both on the floor. Desperately concerned, he noticed the way Arthur was leaning and how he held that left side so gingerly. His shallow breaths were very disconcerting. “What’s the matter? How hurt are you?”

Arthur shook his head. It all seemed to be a great effort for him with his eyes squeezed shut. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” said Albert.

“I’m—” He composed himself, resituated on the bed so that he could face Albert but he kept his head hanging somewhat. “I guess I ain’t as healed as I thought I was. Or maybe the ride did me. I don’t know.”

Albert blinked. He placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, as if to comfort him, but he then seemed to realize how vastly he had underestimated what was going on. Assertively, he assessed Arthur’s posture and then pushed the shirt back off his shoulders, exposing the massive web of brand new, pink scar tissue in his shoulder and the fading but still ripe bruises around his lower left side. Arthur did not protest, even as he seemed embarrassed. The sight of him greatly disturbed Albert. “Oh, Arthur,” he said, shaking his head. He touched the scar with his fingertips, looked up. “This is not good.”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur, again. He shut his eyes and breathed. The pain was subsiding even as it was still something severe. “Really, I’m fine. You should've seen it before.” But then he felt Albert, further examining the bruises, the scar and all of the messed up business that had become his body. When he opened his eyes again and saw Albert’s face and the concern illustrated there so profoundly he didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t deserve this,” said Albert, looking straight at him.

Arthur shook his head, incredulous all of a sudden. “Albert, you don’t—”

“Yes,” said Albert, “I do. I know you. I don’t know what happened, but I know you, and you don’t deserve this.”

Arthur felt somewhat frayed. It seemed to take him by the throat. He had rarely encountered this sort of tenderness with men, and he had never processed what happened with Colm. It was too much for some reason, and when he blinked there were hot tears which he wiped away and bit back as quickly as they had materialized in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Arthur,” said Albert. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I know. I—”

Albert took him by the hand. He held it in both of his. Arthur could not remember what he was going to say.

“I know it is usually you dragging me up from the ledge, dear friend,” said Albert, “but there is a first time for everything, I suppose. Here we are.”

Arthur shut his eyes. It was almost funny.

“Please stay here tonight,” Albert continued. 

Arthur gazed at him, feeling his pride going away, feeling helpless. “Okay.”

“Okay,” said Albert

He didn’t ask anymore questions after that or make any presumptions about what Arthur was or was not. A trolley went by, ringing its stupid bell as they continued holding hands, and there were voices of the people as there always seemed to be so many of them even in the late hours, moving through the streets, moving through their lives doing whatever it was they did with such speed. The nighttime bird on the wire had moved along now, leaving them alone. They were alone. 


	6. Do you ever miss our days in Arcadia, Arthur?

Quiet men do not make much sound but for when they’re called upon. In Arthur’s life, for as much noise as he had made, when alone, he lived in silence, so as not to alert anybody of his existence, which he deemed a harsh humiliation in and of itself. Sometimes he thought about John, and how John seemed to understand the truth of objects, humans, and ideas so easily, and how it had always been so. He lived from the ground up. He did not want for any clouds or bigness.

Arthur had never had anything outside of the gang that he cared about since his kid that died, a kid he’d made out of wedlock with a waitress in Butte, Montana ten or so years before. He did not wish to think about it, because it hurt too much. But it hurt less now, for some reason. His life in this moment felt like a strange fortune told, a second chance. He remembered how Mary Beth had told him once she used to read palms and tell fortunes when she was a gutter thief living in Kansas City. He had a hard time picturing her living on the streets, but it made him respect her for what she had endured in a life fully outside of his experience. He could picture her telling fortunes. Just elaborate stories made up of all the stupid stuff you wear on your sleeve, mention without even your realizing. He wondered if he asked her to tell his fortune now, what she would say.

“Albert,” he said eventually, while they sat on the edge of the bed in Albert’s apartment over the saloon.

“Yes, Arthur.”

“I’m sorry for putting this on you,” he said. “I’m sorry for coming here so messed up. I know it seems real bad, but I’ll survive.”

“Please stop apologizing,” said Albert. He renewed his grip on Albert’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came. I see in your eyes that something isn’t right. That it goes deeper than these bruises.”

Arthur said nothing. He looked away, over at the fireplace.

“Okay,” said Albert. He got up from the bed, seeming to enter into some sort of problem solving mode.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to have one of the girls draw you a bath,” he said. “I think that would be a good idea. I’ll be just a moment.” He went for the door.

“Wait,” said Arthur. He stood quickly, gritted his teeth through the pain in his god foresaken ribs at such a sudden movement.

“What’s the matter?” said Albert, steadying him. “Take it easy, Arthur. For heaven’s sake.”

“I know,” said Arthur. “I know. I just—” He grabbed Albert’s hand, and he watched Albert’s face turn to a weary smile. He had such kind eyes with heavy lids. Even when he was happy, he could look a little sleepy, and that was something Arthur had noticed from day one. Arthur moved in slowly to kiss him. This time, he was hesitant for some reason, but Albert reciprocated. It was simple, and then they looked at each other once more.

“What is it?” said Albert.

“Why you doing this?” said Arthur.

Albert didn’t seem to understand. “Doing what?”

“I mean, taking care of me. Why you keeping me around? You keep seeing me, waiting on me. I ain’t—I know we’re friends, but I’m a bad sort, Albert. These bruises, this scar. It’s got to be proof enough by now, and I just need to know the truth. Why?”

Albert straightened up. He seemed surprised by the line of questioning. He looked away as if to gather his courage. The room was warm and good with golds and reds all around, making them both feel safe and at home, but it was not a home. It was just a nest. “Because I love you,” said Albert, straight to him, his brow and his jaw set real strong. He shrugged. “Why else?”

It was a little like a hard stop, right before chucking off a cliff. Confused, Arthur questioned. “You love me?”

“Yes,” said Albert, quite matter-of-fact. “There is no other explanation for the way that I feel. I’ve never kept company with men before, Arthur, it’s true, but you’re different, and you know it. And you’re not a bad sort. You’re just…you’re in a bad way. You’re a brave man, the bravest I’ve ever known, in fact, and I’m so concerned right now, precisely because even you seem afraid by what’s happened to you. You won’t tell me, but that is part and parcel for being with you. I know what I’m dealing with, but it pales in comparison to how good you have been to me these past months. Life ought to treat you better. That is what I think and that is how I feel. I love you. I am in love with you.”

Arthur’s breathing had kicked up and was filling his chest with pain and oxygen. He could feel the tension in his face, in his jaw, really feel it. He tucked his chin down and in an instant, the two men embraced. Arthur tried sucking it all back, but he couldn’t. Albert was so decent. It seemed to impale him. “I love you, too,” he said, muffled. He had his mouth pressed to Albert’s temple. The man smelled clean, of mild soap. He thought of Clemens Point for some reason as it reminded him of the girls and their hands after they would wash his clothes. “Jesus goddam Christ. I do.”

Albert exhaled. It was as if he had been holding his breath that whole time. His eyes were closed, his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “Well thank heavens,” he said, sounding nervous. “Otherwise I’d have made a hell of a fool of myself just now.”

Arthur pulled away, studied Albert, straightened his loosened collar and dried his own eyes on his wrist. “Goddammit,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Arthur. He took a step backward, composing himself. What he wanted he could not have, not all of it, not tonight. His body hurt. It was not behaving.

But Albert kind of read his mind, went past him to the door. “I’m going to go get the bath going,” he said. “Wait here.”

“Join me,” said Arthur, as he turned to watch Albert buttoning up, opening the door. Arthur’s clothes hung off of him still. He felt unpolished and uncut. Albert, on the other hand, polished up in an instant. “Would you, please?”

Albert was blushing, as he looked down at his hand on the doorknob. “I think I would like that,” he said, smiling up. “I’ll be right back.”

He left the room and Arthur sat down on the bed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He had not shared a moment like this with another human since Mary, and even then, they were young, and it did not feel half as raw and unconditional as it did now. Pried open, he felt exposed to the air, and yet he felt protected and as if he had finally found someone who understood him, and who he longed to belong to.

Albert was back inside of ten minutes. He made a pot of tea and poured some whiskey in with it, a judicious amount. The trick was familiar. It was something Mary Beth used to do as well.

They sat down across from one another, on parlor chairs in the little living area.

“It won’t be long,” said Albert, sipping his tea. “The bath will be ready soon.”

“That sounds fine,” said Arthur. He drank some of his tea. “You know, Mary Beth makes a drink just like this. She puts honey in hers. She calls it a _hot toddy._”

“Oh, yes,” said Albert. “I know of those. I can get you some honey, if you like?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You know, as a photographer I have developed a kind of…keen eye for seeing past the surface level of human emotion. It’s all just stories. Pictures, art. All of it. As you know, of course.” He took a deep breath, one leg crossed over the other. “Mary Beth is in love with you,” he said, sipping his tea. “When they came to see me, I could sense it.”

Arthur took a deep breath. He glanced down into his tea. “Yeah, I know,” he said.

"I will admit it made me a little nervous. She is very beautiful."

“I have tried not to—nurture that, too much," said Arthur. He felt a little warmth in his cheeks. "She took good care of me, back at camp. I think we’re close. But she’s so goddam young. It ain’t a life I’d want for her, either way. She's more like a sister to me, and I do feel somewhat responsible to her, but she ought to find her own path.” He took a drink.

“I understand that,” said Albert, gazing at Arthur. He was pretty sure he knew Arthur much more completely than Arthur realized, and yet, he was relieved.

“I know you said once you ain’t never been married,” said Arthur. “You ever been close? I’m just curious.”

This made Albert laugh. It was a surprise. “Oh, heavens,” he said. “I mean, yes. Yes, I have.”

“Is that right?” said Arthur.

“Indeed,” said Albert. “I’m surprised I’ve never mentioned it. Her name was Heather. Heather Moriarty.”

“Heather Moriarty.”

“I met her while studying at Haverford,” said Albert. “We were together for some years, engaged for one of them before it all sort of...dissolved. My mother didn't take well to her. Said her head was full of cotton candy. Those were her words, not mine.”

Arthur found this amusing. “Who was she?” 

Albert sighed. “Her father was a newspaperman. A rather important newspaperman. He never liked that I was an artist, but I was from a good family, and that’s all that really mattered. She was a socialite, all over the place. I didn’t really see it then, but she had a drinking problem. She was sort of wild, like, she wanted to…get lost. We traveled some and she would just sort of, I don’t know, take me by the hand and fling me far past any life I ever really knew before. I was twenty-five. It was intoxicating.”

Arthur gave him a canny look.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Arthur, drinking. “Just, it sounds a little familiar, Mr. Mason.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wild and free, right?” said Arthur, gazing at him. “Maybe a little broken.” He lit a cigarette. “You got a type.”

Albert shook out his head. Arthur passed him the cigarette and then lit himself another. “I suppose you might be right,” said Albert, smoking. “Though I’d hardly compare the two of you. She seemed made of rice paper. She was ethereal. There is no such friable quality comprised in you, Arthur.”

“I’ll try to take your word for it,” he said.

“I know you were almost married,” said Albert. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice. What was her name again?”

“Mary.”

“Mary,” said Albert. The smoke lingered in the air between them, mixing with the light from the Chinese lanterns and filling the room with a sleepy haze. “What went wrong, exactly?”

Arthur sat back in his chair, winced at the pain in his ribs, and smoked. “She just—she had too much riding on something I wasn’t,” he said. “She wanted me to be a different version of myself.”

“That is too bad.”

“Not really,” said Arthur. “I mean, at the time, I was a degenerate fool. When she left me, I got lost in a bottle for months. Not no more.” He smoked. “I saw her, a couple months ago. She had got remarried but she’s a widow now. Came running back to me, looking for…I don’t know. A protector, I suppose.”

Albert took a long drag and leaned forward to ash the cigarette in the crystal ash tray on the table. “You seem to be very good at solving other peoples’ problems, Arthur. Very giving.” He smiled. “But it is not fair that she never saw past that—that role you assume so naturally. It is important, but it is not all you are.”

Arthur looked down at his cigarette. “I missed this,” he said.

“Which part?”

“The talking,” he said. “Our talks. Three weeks felt like three years.”

Albert smiled, seeming shy. “I would have to agree. How long would you like to stay? Here, with me?”

Arthur thought on it, ashed his cigarette. “I don’t know,” he said, looking at Albert. “As long as I can.”

Albert put out the cigarette. He leaned across the space between them. They kissed in the light of the Chinese lanterns. “Stay as long as you like,” he said.

Arthur inhaled and exhaled, conflicted by the things he desired, and the things that beckoned, the obligations and the guilt.

There was a knock on the door then. The moment broke quickly, and they both looked to see. “Who is it?” said Albert.

“It’s Josie,” said a nice voice. “The bath is all set, Mr. Mason.”

“Thank you, Josie,” said Albert, smiling in the direction of the door. “It is most appreciated.”

“Any time,” she said, a little kittenish, and then they heard her footsteps recede down the hallway.

Arthur kind of gave him a lazy smirk. “Josie, huh?”

“The girls here are very kind to me,” said Albert.

“I don’t doubt that,” said Arthur.

“Well,” said Albert, tucking a little of the hair behind Arthur’s ear. “Shall we?”

Arthur nodded. He exhaled a lungful of smoke, put out his cigarette.

In the bath, they soaked. They sat across from one another, in close proximity. Albert laced their hands together along the rim of the tub. He was lean and his body unscathed by the meanness of living, Arthur noticed right away. He told a story about this time he was twelve years old in Catholic school in Philadelphia, and he got in trouble for taking a picture of a nun without her habit. He said it had not been entirely mischievous, that he had thought she was beautiful. But she did not find it so innocent, and that day he went home with bruises on his knuckles. His mother became apoplectic, took him out of that school the very next day. It had been his father who followed the catholic faith, not her. She chewed out the Mother Superior and then set him on his path as an artist. He had never been more grateful, he said. Arthur was fascinated by Albert's stories of his mother. She seemed intense, and like she'd go to the mat for him on anything. Arthur wondered what that must have been like.

As Albert spoke, Arthur let his mind go soft and beckoned him to turn around so that he could study the unmangled nature and smooth spread of the freckled skin across his back, reflecting his life of protection. Upon instinct, he kneaded Albert’s shoulders with his hands, even as Albert firstly claimed it should be him on the other side of such treatment. Arthur told him not to worry, it was fine, and eventually, Albert’s protests and all talking faded away, and he closed his eyes, drifting backward affectionately, closer to Arthur. The water splashed over the side of the tub as the space between them went away. Albert felt Arthur’s mouth on his ear then, Arthur's hand under the water, taking him up into his grip. It was a natural progression of things between them. Arthur asked his permission still. “May I?” he said. It wasn’t no permission needed, but his chivalry was always a gut-shot, and Albert nodded. He just said calmly, “Please.”

Arthur held tightly then around his stomach with his chin pressed to Albert’s shoulder like to hold him in place. The breathing went heavier after that, as he worked slow at first, but upon acclamation he increased his speed and his grip, and there was little sound between them but for the sloshing of the water and the breathing. For Arthur, the effort hurt some, but he could take this. It wasn't too much to give. It was all going up like a kettle on the stove, in fact, when Albert’s head went back in a silent show, and Arthur got excited, pulled top to bottom, taking them both into some other plane of existence and finishing Albert all the way through to the end of his quiet release. Albert made hardly a sound but for to exhale and moan slightly in the end, his breathing chaotic and everything rising and falling at a rapid pace.

The water was lower now than it had been, the sight of them both exposed and cooling against the hearth-fire air as Albert said his name, quietly, in his brusque but still demure fashion. This in particular had a habit to undo Arthur, and the friction of their bodies, it turned out, was almost enough to put him past the brink as well. At some point after that, Albert had turned his head to put their mouths together, but Arthur was lost for his breath and had gone ragged. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

Albert surfaced upon the utterance, hastened to Arthur. He turned with swiftness to hold Arthur by the jaw and stare him in the eyes, took hold of him halfway under the water and brought him to climax with just a few brute and lengthy strokes. Arthur went limp. The immediate aftermath was so tender and undisguised between them, they just clung to one another, damp and pressing their foreheads together and breathing with their eyes closed. Finally.

After a little while, without enough water in the tub, they were getting chilly. So they got out, one at a time, and wrapped up in cotton robes provided by the establishment. Back in the apartment, they dressed, had more tea with whiskey and went to smoke cigarettes on the balcony until they were too tired to stay awake, at which point, they dragged back to Albert’s bed and held one another in sleep until morning.

About a week later, John was minding his own business back at camp, sitting down by the water and carving a bear out of a hunk of wood for Jack. He thought it was a good idea, but what did he know? Dutch came over around sundown. He seemed quietly hyper as if he had been hanging onto something deep inside for some time but would not allow it to surface. He stood with his hands on his hips and told John that, the next day, he was to take Sean into Rhodes to meet with Bill and Micah, who had arranged for some sort of parlay with the Sheriff. John straightened up, as he sensed something fishy in the suggestion but had not yet recognized enough confidence in himself to say no.

“Maybe we should wait for Arthur,” said John. “See what he thinks about that.”

“Arthur is not here,” said Dutch, with his regular attitude. “In fact, I’m not sure where he is. Mary Beth says he’s on…an errand, but she did not care to elaborate, nor did she have any idea when he might return. Typical Arthur, in these past months. Boy has gotten lost in his own damn head.”

John glanced out at the surface of the water. Some silver trout were jumping at the flies. “Maybe he’s just getting his legs back,” said John. “Alone, without us. Did it ever occur to you? He ain’t a fuckin workhorse. He needs his time.”

Dutch bristled. He clasped a hand to John’s shoulder as if to calm him. Or claim him. It wasn’t always clear. John glanced at Dutch’s hand there, feeling annoyed. “I get it, John.”

“I really don't think you do, Dutch.”

“I need you there,” said Dutch, renewing his grip, “regardless. At the parlay, tomorrow. I'd go myself, but with all that's gone on I'm a little hot right now, son. I need you to do this for me."

“Fine.” John went back to the bear carving. Dutch stood there for a while surveying the lake, and then he went away. John heard Molly crying later that night, and so he took a walk and gave the little bear to Jack at bedtime. Jack was very pleased. Abigail was pleased, too.

John slept alone beneath the stars, thinking about his stupid life and the things inside it. What meant something, what didn’t, how to get away. Then the next morning, he got dressed and drank some coffee and wrangled Sean out of his tent where he had been lying in a nicotine stupor with Karen. Together, they rode into the pretty town.


	7. Nature. Romance. They ain't the same.

Some days later, Arthur waited in the saloon with his journal and a beer, sketching the sunny windows of the place and a couple of the women sitting in them, like birds with their feathers and casting shadows. It was close to lunch time. With so much protected rest, he was feeling somewhat on the mend now, better all the time, and in truth, some parts of his consciousness had already begun to vacate his former life. Albert had sent one of the girls out to the doctor in town to pick up a supply of epsom salts, which Arthur soaked in a couple times a day. It was weird and the stuff made his skin feel tight and dry, but it helped. It really did. And he had been drawing so much, he could weirdly feel himself improving his art, which was a fucked-up sensation of massive proportion that he rarely felt privy to at all in his day-to-day.

Safety is an addictive drug. Arthur felt clean and fed and even in his moods. He rarely left the hotel. Albert went out quite often on his business with the gallery. They still had plans to visit the orchids in the Roanoke Valley as soon as Arthur’s riding chops returned, and his ribs all better. He estimated another week or so should do it. John and Mary Beth both knew exactly where he was and though he had not told them as much, he got the sense they knew the truth. It did not register with him in any nervous sense. He hoped they knew, even as he wondered what they thought of him.

Arthur yielded so little in his life to those who thought they knew him. He wasn't sure why anymore. He just wanted for solace. He still heard the ringing in his ears sometimes, that which Colm O'Driscoll had put there, clapping his ears, breaking his bones. He'd been shot before, but only once had he been forced to cauterize his own wound in a darkened cellar with a taper candle. Sometimes he thought about how this one and single instant seemed to sum up his whole life. He tried not to dwell in that place for long though, as it was nonsense and self-pity. There were those who had it worse than him. There were those who loved him and who long had. And there was Albert Mason.

Sitting there that day, he was waiting for Albert to return from a meeting with the gallery-owner who had picked up a number of his photos to exhibit. The opening would be in a couple weeks time. The bartender came over for a little while to talk to him while shining up a glass, and one of the saloon girls brought him some food. He ate and read and sketched. At some point, he was getting ready to head upstairs, but suddenly then, he was no longer alone. Josiah Trelawny had appeared, sitting down across from him in all of his canny glory, mustache sculpted to its intimidating degree, one leg crossed over the other, looking quietly ecstatic.

“Mr. Morgan,” he said.

“Mr. Trelawny,” said Arthur, closing his journal. He held out his hand for a shake. “What the hell are you doing here.”

"I should wager the same to you. A sight for sore eyes you are, dear boy. Any sighting of Arthur Morgan in the wild is rare indeed.”

“I think you’re trying to flatter me,” said Arthur, “but you know I can’t always tell.”

“Only flattery with you, my friend,” said Josiah. He smiled and leaned. “Bandying about the high saloon of St. Denis, I see? Are you here for the gambling?”

Arthur chuckled. “No sir,” he said. “Or, not today at least.”

“You know we haven’t seen you around Clemens Point in a while,” he said. “Most are ignorant to your absence as usual, but considering the state of you last we saw, there’s some concern in the camp as to whether or not you’re okay.”

“I’m just fine.”

“I see that now.”

“How are you?” said Arthur. “You here visiting your wife?”

“Yes, I am,” said Josiah, softening. “Her bed is very warm, and her arms are very long. They go all the way around me, and I am no small man. She's a tall woman, my wife."

"I did not know that."

"Well, now you do. And after my run-in with those ingrate bounty hunters a couple months back, I am in the market for comfortable sleeping with tall women who love me.”

“Yeah, I know that sort of feeling,” said Arthur, looking down at his hands. "Quite well."

This seemed to interest Josiah. He straightened off the back of the chair and leaned forward with his hands folded neatly on the table. “Mr. Morgan.”

“What?”

“Excuse me for prying,” he said, “but may I be so bold as to inquire…are you seeing someone?”

Somewhere across the bar, a woman threw her drink in the face of a man, spat on his shoes, and stormed out the double-doors. The music stopped momentarily while the man stood in disbelief, dripping from his beard, but then it started up again moments later, and the room resumed its mid-day debauchery as if nothing had happened at all.

“Am I what?” said Arthur. 

“Have you taken a lover?" said Josiah. "In St. Denis. You've got a _kept _look about you at the moment.”

"Oh,” said Arthur, smiling. “Kept, huh?”

"Indeed,” said Josiah. He lowered his voice then, smiling in secret. “It’s not Mary, is it? I know she was here, in the city.”

Arthur found this amusing. “No. No, it ain't Mary.”

“Then who is she?”

Arthur smiled, kind of nonplussed. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. He looked around. The saloon was about half-full. There was a poker game going on over by the window. He leaned against the table and felt a little silly. It seemed silly to recall it out loud. “He’s a…nature photographer. He’s in town on business, and I met him some months back over in West Elizabeth, randomly. It was…maybe a week or so before that time we busted Sean free from them bounty hunters over in Blackwater. He hails from Philadelphia originally, and he’s quite decent.”

Josiah had not blinked. He was staring. Then he blinked many times in a row as if accomplishing his bearings and processing what he had just heard. “Why, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I had no idea you kept the company of gentlemen. I’m so very sorry for my assumption.”

Arthur waved him off. “No reason to apologize,” he said. “Truth be told, you were right in your assumptions, until now. This entire thing has taken me by complete surprise. Both me and him, I reckon.”

“Does anyone else know?” said Josiah. “About why it is you’ve been so absent from our camp?”

“Not really,” said Arthur. “Or, well, Mary Beth, maybe. John. They might've guessed by now. I can’t be sure. I’ve never told anyone outright, not till now. It ain’t that I’m ashamed. It’s just that—it’s a relationship that is away from all that. It don’t belong to nobody but me. I ain’t had that so much in my life, Josiah, and I ain’t eager to share.”

“I understand. This information is safe with me, Arthur.” 

“Yeah, I know. Thank you.”

One of the saloon girls came over then, took their orders. Josiah ordered a glass of bourbon. Arthur just ordered a bottle of beer. “You know, I’ve dallianced with men in the past,” said Josiah, examining his nails. “Before I met my wife of course. I chose her, but there was a time when I was more or less in the wind.”

“Seriously?” said Arthur.

“Oh, yes. Love is love, dear boy. Sometimes, it just takes the shape we least expect.”

Arthur grinned at this, holding his beer with both hands. “I suppose you’re right. I just never thought of it like that.”

“Until now,” said Josiah.

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Until now.”

The saloon girl came over with their drinks. Josiah paid for them both and tipped her generously. “To you,” said Josiah, to Arthur. They toasted and drank. Josiah took out a deck of cards, which he proceeded to shuffle. He showed Arthur a new magic trick he had invented, and told him that he was planning a visit to the orphanage in town that very day, to do a magic show.

"That is mighty generous of you, Mr. Trelawny.”

“Well, I try to do my part.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, as if nervous.

That is when Albert arrived and approached the table, smiling in his gracious manner. He said hello to Arthur, and Arthur stood upon his arrival until Albert urged him to sit back down. Josiah did not move. 

“Mr. Mason,” he said, fully surprised. They shook hands. “Fancy seeing you here again. Are you back for the cards? You know beginner’s luck only applies once, my dear boy. You’ll need skill if you’re to rake once more, and skill takes practice.”

Albert laughed at this, visibly blushed. “No, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid my days as a card shark have passed. I’d prefer to go out on a high note.”

“Very smart,” said Josiah. He then glanced to Arthur. “Mr. Mason, meet my dear friend, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur looked down at the cards on the table, smiling at them, and then back to Albert, and then to Josiah.

Albert removed his hat from his head. “Yes, we’ve met,” he said. “Though I didn’t know the two of you knew one another.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Josiah.

“Mr. Trelawny and I go way back,” said Arthur to Albert. “A decade or more if I ain’t mistaken.”

“Good heavens,” said Albert. “It is quite the coincidence then.”

Josiah was staring, at the two of them, seeming to come into a slow but certain realization. He looked at Albert. “Mr. Mason, you wouldn’t happen to be a nature photographer, would you?”

“Why, yes,” said Albert. “I am. Why do you ask?”

Josiah gazed at Arthur. “No reason.” He smiled. “Well, I should be on my way,” he said. He got up, placed his hat atop his head. “Mr. Mason, it was wonderful seeing you again. Stay sharp. And Mr. Morgan, it is always a pleasure with you. I’m glad to see that you’re healing.”

“Yeah, don’t get too excited.”

“I certainly will,” he said. “I’ll let slip to Dutch, too, that you’re on a job of high esteem.”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you anyway.”

“Adieu, good sirs,” he said, and then he bowed and went away.

When they were alone but for the sounds of the room and the horses outside on the cobblestone, Albert stood for a moment, full of social grace. He then set his hat on the table and his valise on the floor, and he sat down across from Arthur. They kept their hands tucked into their laps for a while, and then Arthur folded his on the table. They looked down at the table cloth and then up at one another. Arthur took a deep breath. "Good afternoon, Mr. Mason,” he said.

Albert fumbled for words. He felt himself blushing to an ungentlemanly degree. He then looked up at Arthur and said, “You look good today. Your color. I'm sorry I missed you this morning. You were sleeping so soundly.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Arthur. He took a breath. “So, Josiah—that’s the magician who taught you cards is it.”

“Yes, sir. It certainly is a strange bit of happenstance.”

Arthur found this amusing. “Yeah, I should've figured.” He took a drink of his beer, straightened his pencil, set his journal aside. “How was your meeting?”

“It was good,” said Albert, loosening up a little. He exhaled. “They’re very happy with my work, which is both exciting but also entirely confounding. I hope you’ll accompany me to the opening.”

This seemed to catch Arthur undone. He was flattered. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Splendid,” said Albert, watching him. The eyes, their blue. He got lost. Arthur paid his tab from earlier, tucked his journal into his pocket. Then he picked up Albert’s valise. They went upstairs.

It was this day that marked the end of a time in which Albert could say that Arthur had not been inside him. His strength returned with enough rest and stability, Arthur bent Albert to the bed, removed his clothes and his composure completely. The lid gone to the petroleum jelly, he went so slow as to induce some kind of physical, emotional ecstasy. Agonizing. They made a beautiful mess of one another, ordered lunch, and took a very long bath and did not again emerge from the second floor of the saloon until after nine-pm.

When they went back downstairs, they bought a bottle of wine. It was so strange, as it seemed their world had become small, a diorama of what it had been before. They had become city men, indoor men, just for a little while. For Albert, this sort of thing was old hat, but for Arthur, it was new. They shared the wine with the bartender who talked them into a few impromptu hands of blackjack, and of course, Arthur won every time, almost to an embarrassing degree. It did not even seem to register, how easy it was for him. His intelligence escaped him, past the decades of pain he hid away beneath his quiet armor. And he was just so good at these sorts of things, thought Albert. His gunslinger.

That night, they lay in Albert’s bed, a little wine drunk and high. One of the bar girls had shared with them her bounty of hash cigarettes, and they took to it dreamily, paid her triple. Arthur was drawing something—some sort of tree. Perhaps a tupelo. Hanging from its branches were all of these dreamcatchers. Albert watched, and then he read sometimes, this tremendous novel of awful cynicism called _McTeague. _It was brand new and terribly unromantic. Almost Darwinian. He had only just picked it up that very day. He read parts of it out loud to Arthur who laughed it off.

“Of course the huge, idiotic brute named McTeague is gonna get the girl in a book like that,” he said, shading his picture with the flat edge of the pencil. “Of course. That ain’t nice, that sort of Realism. You go reading long enough, she’ll probably end up dead, the girl. I’ll bet he kills her. For money, convenience, something stupid like that. Fortune favors the angry, Albert. You want for that which is simple enough, and you go to it, angry enough, you’ll get it, no matter how many folks’ lives you end in the process, including your own. That’s just evil in a world that don’t care. I know all about that.”

“Have you read this already?” said Albert.

“No,” said Arthur. “But I know what kind of book that is. I can just tell.” He finished his drawing, and he closed his journal. He looked at Albert, got quiet and he took his hand. “I don’t want that life no more,” he said. "I mean it."

Albert kissed him, soft. He still knew very little of what Arthur did, only who Arthur was. To him. He said, “Let me be good to you. You’ve always been good to me.”

“Good_ to_ you, sure,” said Arthur. “But good _for_ you?”

“You let me be the judge of that.”

Arthur smiled. “Okay, Mr. Mason.”

There was a knock on the door then. A pounding, eager and loud, startling them both. Albert looked at his watch. It was after midnight. “Who could that be?”

They got up, dressed in their night clothes. Arthur removed himself to the sitting room, on his guard. Albert answered the door. It was John Marston.

“John?” he said. “What’s the matter? Is everything all right?”

“No,” he said. He looked disheveled and had a long, bloody cut on his hand which he had wrapped in a stained linen handkerchief. “I'm sorry to disturb. I truly am, but is Arthur here?”

“Yes. Please come in.” Albert stepped aside.

Arthur knotted his hair off his face. John came in, looking terrified, like absolute shit. “John,” said Arthur. "What's going on?"

“It’s Jack,” said John.

“What about Jack?”

“He’s missing,” said John. He looked away, as if in shame. He dropped his head into his hands. "Got kidnapped."

“Kidnapped?”

“Kieran said he didn’t think nothing of it—they was outside camp,” said John.

"Who was?"

“Braithwaites. He came back to report on them, and he said something, but it was too late. Abbie is—she ain’t doing good, Arthur.” He was near on crying. Arthur went to him. He placed his hand on John’s shoulder, leaned in to study his busted up face, his eyes, steadied him hard. “It’s all coming home,” said John, shaking his head. “It’s all coming home, brother. Sean is dead.”

“What?”

“There was an ambush in Rhodes,” John continued. “He got blown away. Now, Jack. I’m sorry. I—I wouldn’t’ve come. I know you got—” He looked at Albert, who was watching the carpet on the floor between. He appeared to be fraught, concerned, but he did not meet John’s eyes. He maintained his distance and waited in silence. John looked back to Arthur. “I need you,” he said, laid bare. "Will you help me?"

Arthur said, “You wait downstairs. I will be right there.”

Tornadoes always hit in the dullest part of the afternoon, in the humidity of summer when suddenly a cool wind blows through, and you look up, and there’s green in the sky.

“Who is Jack?” said Albert as Arthur dressed. “Is that John’s son?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. "He's just a kid. He's little."

“My god.”

“I will be back as soon as I can.”

“I have money, Arthur. If there’s a ransom, or—”

But Arthur cut him off, buckling his gun belt. It was the first time he’d even lifted it from the ground in a week. “It ain’t about money, Mr. Mason,” he said, very cavalier. He kissed him. “I assure you. It’s like I said before, evil in a world that don’t care. But know that I am grateful for the offer. I am.”

Albert held back. He wasn’t sure why. Truth be told, he was terrified, but he was afraid to communicate this to Arthur now. He saw him to the door and held it inside. “Be safe, dear friend,” he said, holding himself upright against the frame. “Please be safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience on this one! <3 -gala


	8. St. Denis was never enough.

“Goddam cemeteries,” said Arthur. He was loading his volcanic. It was early night, and they were creeping through the mausoleums. It had become imperative for them to play errand boys, running out grave robbers in their final push to bring Jack back. It was by far the most ridiculous bullshit with which they had ever been tasked. There was a dog barking somewhere amongst the tombstones, and they kept finding vagrants crouching here and there as if the dead could somehow keep them warm. It all made Arthur feel sick in his bones. “This place is hellish.”

“I appreciate you being here,” said John. He seemed nervous, but not by ghosts nor vagrants. He was terrified about Jack. “Seriously.”

“Of course I’m here,” said Arthur. "Don't be a moron."

“Braithwaite Manor weren’t no picnic. I still smell like smoke.”

Arthur lit a cigarette. He was smoking it and feeling dry in his throat and in his eyes. He was tired. He hadn’t slept properly in two days. “Ain’t sure what you expected.”

“Dutch is losing his mind, Arthur,” said John. “Don’t you think? I ain’t too keen on what I see.”

"I don't see much of anything no more."

“I ain’t sure how much of it I see neither. Seems an awful waste. Of a life? All this time, and running? I don’t even know what he’s talking about half the time.”

“You really ought to leave,” said Arthur, looking around. There was a sad dove singing somewhere nearby. It was creepy. Arthur swore under his breath.

“Leave and go where?” said John. He stopped, like he had got confused by his location.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. “Anywhere. We get Jack back, and then I reckon you ought to wrangle him, Abigail, and leave. Ain't no reason to stick around no more if you don't follow.”

"What about loyalty?" John said.

Arthur said nothing of it at first. In his mind, he had traveled far from the notion of loyalty. His loyalties had changed. He didn't know what the goddam word meant anymore. "Be loyal to what matters," he said, pulling words out of his ass. But they sounded true.

John seemed pensive on this. He had stopped cold and Arthur along with him. They were officially lost, but neither of them seemed to care, or even notice. “Interesting,” said John. "Real interesting. What about you then?"

“What about me.”

“You and Albert.”

Arthur looked at him, taken off guard. John was unwavering in his resolve, gazing through the fog. “Come on,” said Arthur, ignoring the question. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You can tell me the truth,” said John, following behind. “I ain’t—I would never judge you, Arthur. Not for that.”

“For what?”

“For loving a man. It ain’t like that. And hey, maybe I’m wrong? But I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“You ain’t wrong,” said Arthur. He had the cigarette crammed between his lips. He’d started to get freaked out by the atmosphere of the cemetery, so he holstered his volcanic and opted instead for his repeater. He looked back at John who was earnest and reminding him of a dog who had wandered into a field of corn. He looked so young, thought Arthur. He looked as young as he had the day Arthur took him out that noose in Chicago. Arthur remembered how he’d had ligature bruises on his neck as if he had been dragged for a mile, and when they got him back to their camp in Putnam all the way over on the Illinois River, he did not speak for two days. It still broke Arthur up inside, to think of it.

“Arthur?”

"It’s just—” He shook his head out, to get brave. “You ain’t wrong. Okay?”

John nodded. He didn’t push nor prod. He just said, “Okay.” He seemed satisfied. “I think the place we’re looking for is just ahead.”

“Thank Jesus.”

They finished the job upright and got out clean inside twenty minutes. As they rode home, John struggled with Jack, who seemed enamored of the brief, fancy life he had lived while sequestered at Mr. Angelo Bronte’s. He talked in ecstatic, shiny terms, which intimidated John at first. Arthur mostly found it amusing, though he understood. He was relieved to have Jack back. He was relieved. He had known all along how bad it could have gone, and he had to close his eyes to shake the old fear from his heart. 

It wasn’t long before they were back at Shady Belle, and the gang was celebrating Jack’s heroic rescue along with the false comeuppance of all those who had wronged them. Arthur smoked idly and stood off grooming his horse so as to avoid Dutch and even more so Hosea who was sick and getting sicker and whose love he knew to be true but constantly misguided by his thirst for the life. Arthur had never felt any such lust for anything and standing now, in the swamps of southern Lemoyne, he felt farther away from his own life and his own love than he ever had. It took him a great deal of will to finally enter their camp that night. A big haunted house in a big haunted country.

It had been four days, and Albert, in a fit of boredom and cabin fever, rode his horse out of the city and to a safe camping spot, north of Rhodes near Dewberry Creek. It had been so long since he’d slept outdoors that he was beginning to wonder if any of it had ever happened. The creek was an Arcadian dream, full of Whitetail, fox, rabbits. Scarce boar. He tracked a twelve-point buck for a while and took its picture, felt free and alone and calm. He built a fire and his tent, fished a fish in the creek, cleaned and cooked it up for his dinner in the manner taught to him by Arthur. He poured a glass of bourbon whiskey and ate as the sun went down behind the tangled tree line, feeling proud.

Before he had left St. Denis, Albert stopped at the post office where there was waiting for him a letter from his mother. He had been looking forward to her correspondence for a couple weeks now. Before he went to sleep that night, he leaned against a fallen tree trunk, sipping more of the whiskey, and he read that letter by the light of the fire. His mother’s letters were long, requiring time and commitment. They often read like opinion editorials full of immaculate grammar and journalistic observations upon her own life and his and the lives of those she deemed worthy of conversation in the high society of Philadelphia. She was a good writer, educated at Vassar College prior to marrying Albert’s father, the son of a prominent businessman from New York. She was into her mid-fifties now, living in Philadelphia, and she had been alone for many years. He worried about her, sometimes. She had always seemed a tough cookie, but knowing Arthur had taught him well that a strong armor is worth little more than the human sadness it protects.

In his last letter, Albert had told his mother of Arthur—not in a bid for her approval. He just wanted her to know. The letter he received in return now was several pages long and full of life, but it did not mention Arthur until the very end. He smoked several cigarettes as he read, and by the time he got to the final paragraphs, he was happily drunk and sat up off the fallen tree, leaning closer to the fire, for what he read would serve to change his life—

_Well, dear Al, we are nearing the end of this most current exchange, and in the spirit of your previous letter, I would like to close things with a quaint proposition for you. You remember my brother, your Uncle Matthew, who recently purchased a large stake of land out on the central coast of California? Well, Matthew has taken a wife, and together they have purchased a home in San Francisco. In the wake of things, he has offered the ranch to me, free and clear. I have taken him up on his offer, of course, and plan to leave in three weeks time. As you well know, I have been aching for departure to the west for many years, and as a result will be closing up the Philadelphia estate indefinitely._

_The property in California is comprised of 200 acres of terrain with water, plus a wide stable and two free-standing homes. It also holds a significant quarters for farmhands and stable boys and finds its end on a cliff that drops off into the wide, blue Pacific. I have seen photographs, and it is quite beautiful. Obviously, it is far too much for me to occupy by myself, however, and what I mean to propose is that, should you and your Arthur find yourselves in need of a home once your stretch in St. Denis comes to a close, you should pack your bags and get on a train to Monterey. Technically it is in a little place called Carmel-by-the-Sea, but you catch my meaning. I hope you’ll come. I am certain you would discover a wealth of inspiration for your work out west, Al. And Arthur as well, for I know how you mentioned he is an artist. _

_Please be in touch, hastily, as if the two of you plan on coming to stay, I will need to ready the property. I like to be prepared! Good luck with your opening, and remember how I love you. Give Arthur my warm regards. I do hope to meet him soon. You sound happy._

_Your Loving Mother,_

_Cynthia_

Much later, with the night winding down, Arthur stood chain-smoking on the swamp as a thunderstorm now raged over the horizon of the Lanahechee. With the adrenaline wore off, his body felt beat as he looked at the dark water ahead of him. It seemed endless and humid. Behind him there was the party, still going on and on as ticker tape. Javier played the guitar while Karen sang with Miss Grimshaw and they drank whiskey by the fire. 

The colors of the world in which Arthur lived were changing, all around him. He felt sour and uncomfortable there, held up inside and anxious to unleash himself from the life to which he had been yoked for so long. Having forged a life of his own, separate from the interests of the gang, this was now all that Arthur could think about. He knew that it was selfish but he could not remember any other time in his life in which had allowed himself to entertain his own needs long enough to even register what selfishness felt like. He was bored and agitated as he looked out at the swampy river’s edge.

Mary Beth came down at some point and stood beside him, a welcome surprise. She had a pale scarf tied around her hair as if to protect from the occasional blowing rain. Arthur gave her a cigarette, lit it for her off the burning end of his own. Together they stood, looking at the lightning for a while, and smoking like old times.

“You did good, Arthur,” she said after some time. She glanced at him from behind the scarf like she was hiding part of herself. Thunder went off in the distance and shook the land. “Getting Jack back. It was a real good thing you did for John.”

“I know,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I’m supposed to tell you that Dutch wants to talk to you.” She said it half-heartedly. She did not even look at him.

Arthur said nothing.

“Anyway, John’s inside,” Mary Beth went on, smoking. “He’s with Abbie and Jack. Things seem good between them, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth.

He looked at her, sensing the curiosity and the concern on the edge of her voice. She wore it so often with him. They had been friends a long time. “What is it?” he said.

“I’m gonna ask you something,” she said, watching the water, “and you don’t have to answer. I won’t mind. I promise. But if you do answer, please tell me the truth. Don’t spare my feelings.”

“Go ahead, Mary Beth.”

Out on the edge of the horizon, lightning threaded the sky. The storm was moving fast. It was headed to sea.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, looking at her hands, “do you love him?”

He smoked. He finished his cigarette, tossed it to the earth and put it out with the heel of his boot. He nodded, gripping his belt, glancing to her and her freckled cheeks. “Yes,” he said.

Her breath did not catch, and she did not hesitate. She simply nodded, took a drag, and blew the smoke out in the air. “Okay,” she said.

“Mary Beth,” said Arthur.

“It’s okay,” she said. She smiled at him, through a fierce façade, as if she were trying desperately not to cry. “Please don’t apologize. I’m glad you found somebody, Arthur. Somebody decent. I surely am, as I want you to be happy. You deserve love.” She put the hair behind her ears and looked at her cigarette. “I never held no expectations for us. I know it sometimes seemed that way but I swear.”

“I know,” he said, studying her. “I know.”

“We’re friends. Ain’t we?”

“Always.”

“Good,” she said, like she was relieved. “You know I used to be filled with all these fantasies, especially when I first joined up with you boys. Knights in armor, all that. They saved my mind for many years. You always fit that bill.”

“I ain’t no knight, Mary Beth.”

“You are to me,” she said. “And I ain’t forgotten.”

“I will always protect you,” said Arthur. “Any way I can. And I am thankful for you. Taking care of me after all that nasty business, in ways that no one else would. For listening to me. You will find love, Mary Beth. If that is what you desire. I know it.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome.”

They smoked. The sky churned. “I been saving up, you know,” said Mary Beth, finishing her cigarette, throwing it into the water. She adjusted the scarf in her hair. “I got more than $800.”

“Saving up for what?” said Arthur.

“For leaving the gang,” she said, like a revelation. “It won’t be long now. I been reading a lot, about the Midwest. There are places up there I could live forever, on a much longer dime. I could get a room, with a desk. Maybe even a cabin. A place to write all these stories I been cooking up in my mind. I don’t doubt they’re terrible, but still. They’re mine. I want to make something, Arthur. I can’t do that here. Try as I been, it’s too much running, too much uncertainty.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “And I think that’s a fine plan.”

“You should go, too,” she said, growing wistful, like she had stars in her eyes. “With Albert. He loves you. He has money. He can take you away from here. From all this. You should let him, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at her, and then he glanced back to the party where he could not see nor hear nothing but debauchery. It was a mixture of those he loved and those he no longer understood, and he knew that in time, all would draw to a close, and it would make no difference. None at all. The hour was growing late now. The night was long. He did not go to see Dutch. He breathed.

The next morning when Albert returned from his camping trip on Dewberry Creek, he opened the door to his apartment and found Arthur inside, waiting. He had been sitting on the sofa, sketching furiously, and when Albert came in, he looked up, relieved, stood and closed his journal.

“Where you been?” he said.

“Arthur,” said Albert, happily surprised. He set down his valise and his tripod, and he removed his hat. “How did you get in here?”

“I uh—I picked the lock,” said Arthur. “Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Albert.

"I got here late last night. You wasn't here."

“I went for a ride,” said Albert. “Don't worry. Did you find Jack? Is he okay?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “He’s back with his family now. Thank you for asking.”

“Of course,” said Albert. “I’m relieved. It seemed so serious.”

They stood across the room from one another now, as if yet too hesitant to cross. Both of them looked at their shoes for a moment, very still in this liminal space.

At some point, Albert finally came over, and both of them sat down on the couch. Albert reached for Arthur’s hand and held it steadfastly. They looked at each other. Arthur studied Albert’s face closely and said, “So, you went for a ride, huh? You look a little windswept.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “I went out camping, just one night. Over on Dewberry Creek.”

“Dewberry Creek?” said Arthur. “That’s pretty country over there. Bold move, Mr. Mason."

“Well, we are untamed," he said, smiling to himself. "I got some wonderful shots of a twelve-point buck. I caught a fish as well.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“Very good."

“Thank you,” said Albert. He blushed. “I got a letter from my mother yesterday.”

“That sounds nice,” said Arthur. He ran his thumb across Albert's knuckles. His whole body calm, safe. His heart was quiet. “What did she have to say?”

“A lot, actually,” said Albert.

“Oh yeah?”

The morning sun was pouring in through the windows, soaking the room and making it warm. There were some loud and joyful noises then, coming in through the wide open French doors from the bustling street outside. It sounded like a bunch of kids, getting loose, playing tag, being free.


	9. And then, the tides turned.

That morning, John was sitting in his room upstairs, in Shady Bell, thinking and staring out the window. He was thinking about his conversation with Arthur from the day before, when they had been in the grave yard, pondering the meaning of their existence as men outside the law. Down in the yard, he could see Jack, having woken up maybe half an hour before. He was with the dog, and they were minding their own business. Jack was like that. He minded his own business. He had a stick and he was drawing shapes in the mud leftover from the storm, and the dog was just lying there, with his little face on his paws, watching. Much of the camp was still sleeping, Abigail among them. He’d shared a bed with her that night. They had only slept. They had not touched. He knew it would be a long time coming if she was ever going to touch him again, but he could wait. She was waking up now, pushing the dark hair out of her face, looking around as if she could not remember where she was. When she saw him, she propped up onto her elbows and sighed. She smiled, wearing her night clothes, which she had sewn herself many years before. He remembered her doing it.

“Hey,” he said. He had been whittling a little horn out a piece of wood. He set it down on the windowsill now.

“Where’s Jack?” she said.

“Downstairs,” said John. “Don’t worry. I can see him from here.”

She nodded, reassured, and swung her bare feet over the side of the bed. They dangled a little. She was a short woman. “I ain’t slept like that in…years.”

“Yeah,” said John, smiling. “You was out cold.”

She blushed.

“Abbie,” he said. He turned toward her in his chair, with real conviction.

“What is it?”

“We need to talk,” he said. “Can I—?”

She seemed to read his mind. “Yeah,” she said, looking concerned. “Come on over here, John. It’s fine.”

He got up, joined her on the bed. He gathered her hands up into his, looked down at the shapes their palms made, like a little nest.

“What the hell’s the matter?” she said. “You seem so serious.”

“I am,” he said. He looked at her. “I am, Abbie.”

She waited, her cheeks still flushed from sleep. “What’s going on?”

“We need to get ready,” he said, nodding to himself. “Abbie. We need to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

"For leaving. You, and me, and Jack.”

“Leaving?” she said. “John, you’re scaring me.”

“No, don’t. Don’t be scared.”

“Where we going to?”

“I don’t know,” said John, shaking his head. “I ain’t—I ain’t thought it that far through yet. I only just got to the realization last night.”

“What realization?”

“That this—this gang. This whole thing. It ain’t good, Abbie. Not no more.”

The sun was getting brighter, poking through the tupelos, coming in through the window now, and lighting her face. “You saying you wanna leave the gang?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am. And I want you and Jack to come with me, for us to be a family.”

She got real quiet now, like she was soaking in something. She glanced toward the window. You could hear Jack now, shouting for the dog to follow him. Sadie was there. She said, _Hey Jack. Come help me feed the chickens, okay? _

“Is this because of Arthur?” she said. “I mean—is it something he said to you?”

“It is,” said John. “He’s making me realize, it ain’t no picnic here no more, Abbie. Jack got kidnapped. It just ain’t safe.”

“I know,” she said. “I know, and I agree with you.”

“So you’ll be ready. To go. When it’s time.”

“When’s it gonna be time?” she said.

“I don’t know,” said John, still with her hands in his. “I just don’t know. We need some money, probably. We need a place to go.”

“Where is Arthur, John?” she said. “I saw him leave last night, real late. He rode away from the camp. He’s been so…distant. Where is he?”

John cleared his throat, searching her eyes. She was genuinely curious, and she still had not taken her hands back and this was encouraging. It emboldened him. “Arthur is in St. Denis,” he said. “That’s where he’s been.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He, uh. He sort of met someone.”

“Met someone?” said Abigail. She got real bright. She looked happy. “You mean like, romantically? A woman?”

“Well, no,” said John, taking a deep breath. “I mean…like, a man. It’s what you’re thinking. It’s romantic, but it’s a man. And I’ve met him. He’s real decent, Abbie. He’s good. He’s rich, like. High society, from Philadelphia. He’s a nature photographer. His name is Albert Mason.”

Abigail was just staring at him, like she didn’t know what to say. She had these eyes that looked sort of like melting ice caps. Her features may have been a little stark to some people, but to him, were like a home. He knew them so well. “Arthur is getting on with a high society nature photographer?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “They met, maybe a couple months back? He was helping him with a project and I guess it just sort of…evolved.” 

She looked down at her bare feet, then to the door. “Sweet Jesus. I had no idea.”

“Me neither,” he said. "Well, I mean, not till recently."

“Does he seem happy?” said Abigail. “Arthur?”

“Yes,” said John, seriously. “He does. And I think—I mean, Albert, he’s got money. They could go anywhere.”

“You think Arthur is gonna leave,” said Abigail, looking back at him. “That’s why you wanna leave.”

“I wanna leave, because it ain’t safe. Not for you, and not for Jack. But yes. I think—I think that Arthur is gonna leave, Abbie. I can’t say where to, but I can say why.”

Outside, you could hear the birds chirping as the camp roused into life. Pearson put the coffee on, and somebody was cooking what smelled like bacon over a spit. Javier was bringing in the day on his wistful guitar, and for a moment, it was almost bucolic.

“It’s sort of romantic,” said Abigail. “Don’t you think?”

“I guess,” said John.

“Big tough guy, Arthur Morgan, outlaw, _gunslinger, _getting swept off his feet by some rich guy from Philadelphia.” She laughed to herself. “It figures. What’s his name again?”

“Albert Mason,” said John.

“Albert Mason,” said Abigail, looking down in silliness. “Same initials even. What’s he like?”

John shrugged. “He’s real nice,” he said. “I don’t know. Calm, and generous. He cares about Arthur, a lot. You can tell. He likes tea.”

“Is he good-looking?”

John laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Oh, you’re such a tough guy,” she said, fooling. She pinched his cheek, and shoved him in the shoulder. “John Marston. Well, maybe one day I’ll meet him myself, and I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Maybe you will,” said John.

They watched each other closely, in the warm light pouring through the windows from the late morning sun. “Does anybody else know?” said Abigail. “About Albert?”

“Just Mary Beth,” said John.

“Hmm.”

John knew what she was thinking. “Yeah. I know. It’s a whole…thing, isn’t it.”

“She’s been carrying a torch for that man,” said Abigail, fussing with her hair now, putting it in a braid over her shoulder. “I’ve always known. I told her he’s hopeless, time and time again, but she never heard nothing of it. Anyway, she’s too damn smart for this sort of living. I always thought, if I could read and write like her? I’d be out of here in an instant.”

“You can read just fine,” said John. “You’re getting better.”

She waved him off, embarrassed. “Oh, I read like a moron.”

“I’ll help you,” he said. “We can practice more, if it’s what’ you want.”

This undid her a little and she looked at him like she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. The sunlight made her cheeks look golden. She finished with her braid, laid it flat. She said, “Maybe some night? When there’s time of course.”

“Sounds good,” said John.

The next day, Arthur and Albert had gotten on their horses and rode north to a ridge above the Kamassa River, where they camped in privacy amidst the enchanted forest and the marshy air in the foothills of the eastern Grizzly Range. As had been their plan from may weeks before, they were finally on their hunt for moccasin flowers, which Albert had been wanting to photograph for a long while. For the time being, however, it was sundown and they had already had their dinner. Arthur was deep inside him, their bodies pressed together, making indents in the earth at the foot of a tall and unwieldy White Oak tree. Arthur was a gentle species, but Albert urged him that night. Emboldened by the natural world and the freedom of the woods, he wanted them both to get past the brink and with enough encouragement, Arthur brought them there, jagged and moaning. It was like he didn’t know what hit him. It went on. It took a long time, and Albert felt proud and undone, exhausted once they finished. It was ecstasy. Arthur leaned forward to steady against the tree. He pressed his lips to the back of Albert’s neck, pushing away the hair and the sweat, catching his breath. They kissed, pondering, processing what had just taken place. When they both surfaced from the rubble, Arthur pulled out of him, slowly, and Albert shuddered in the aftermath, collapsed to the earth and they held one another until the sun was all the way down behind the trees and they were too cold to stay undressed any longer.

Back by the fire, they wore their regular clothes again, leaned against a big, hardy rock as they shared a joint of hash and smoking tobacco. Together, they blew the smoke into the air and grew bleary-eyed from the drugs, falling deeper and deeper in love as the night washed over and through them. After a while, they fell asleep. The night was quiet, and their bodies were warm. But Albert woke up at some point when the fire got low. He was thirsty, anxious. He leaned forward to stoke the flame and lit another cigarette and let Arthur continue to lean against him, eyes closed, his breathing long and even. Albert ran one hand through Arthur’s hair, where it curled behind his ears. Even as it looked dingy in the dark of the evening, it would be gold by morning again, almost flaxen, bleached in highlights from the sun. He almost couldn’t take it, the things he was feeling.

He hadn’t told Arthur yet, about California. He knew why, as he sat there by the fire, smoking his cigarette. He just wanted things to stay simple, a little longer. It felt limitless, physical, full of romance and also speed. He had never been taken so quickly by anyone. It messed him up, in a good way, and it made him certain about what he wanted. As he pondered the future now, Albert feared that Arthur would reject him—any suggestion that they move forward, leave this place. Arthur held so much, so tightly within himself. Pain, history. He told Albert little of his life. It’s just who he was, as a man, and Albert accepted him. There was no way to bridge this part of Arthur, not completely. Of course, certain elements of his heart could be coaxed free. He was generous, and loving, full of warmth when they were together, but that was feelings. It wasn’t feelings that Arthur struggled with, strangely enough. It was the choosing. Albert could meet him halfway, and he could wait. He could wait forever, he thought, but he did not want to wait. He would, but he didn’t want to. He put the hair behind Arthur’s ear, finished his cigarette, and waited. He read a little, trying to clear his mind. In the distance, you could hear the coyotes. It was a beautiful place.

About a half hour later, around midnight, Arthur roused, suddenly. He sat straight up off the rock, as if he had been woken by a nightmare. He looked around frantically and placed his hand on the pistol at his side. Albert was startled at first but just clasped one firm hand to Arthur’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay.”

Arthur came to, shook his head out, immediately. He went almost limp, back against that rock and he took a deep breath. His eyes were a little wide, glazed over. He was breathing fast. “Shit,” he said, his chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you have a bad dream?” said Albert.

“No,” said Arthur, digging the heel of his palm in his eyeball. “I mean, not really. More like, I just don’t normally fall asleep like that, so hard, not out in the wilderness.”

“Yes, I know,” said Albert. “But it’s okay. Everything’s all right, just where you left it.”

Arthur closed his eyes and set his head back, taking deep, even breaths until he settled down. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight,” said Albert. “I woke up a little while ago. I couldn’t sleep.”

“What you been up to?” said Arthur. He plucked a cigarette from the brim of his hat. He lit it and smoked, hanging his head between his knees. He seemed all right now, just weary.

“I’m thinking, mostly.”

“What about?”

Albert took a deep breath. “About you,” he said.

Arthur grinned, glanced up at him, smoking that cigarette, looking canny in the firelight. “You’re pretty smooth when you want to be, Mr. Mason.”

This made Albert laugh to himself. “I try.”

Arthur studied him then, his blue eyes washed out to gray, but even still, his focus could rip right through. “Al. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m just—I’m torn about something.”

“You know you can tell me anything,” said Arthur. He flicked the cigarette.

“I know.”

“Then go ahead,” said Arthur. “I’m listening.”

Albert removed his cigarette case from his pocket. It was silver and very fine. He withdrew one, lit it with a match, then offered the case to Arthur who declined. He just smoked then, absentmindedly as he looked at the fire. He scratched an itch above his eyebrow, listened to the loons, going off in the distance with the coyotes. He looked down at the cigarette case, which he held in one hand. He was running his thumb over its delicate engravings: _E.L.M., _it read_._ _Elijah Lawrence Mason_, his father. “Do you remember how I told you that I got a letter from my mother the other day,” he said.

Arthur nodded. He had his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah. You said she’s doing well. What’s her name again?”

“Cynthia,” said Albert, flipping the case open and shut, then putting it away in his pocket. He smoked.

“Cynthia Mason,” said Arthur. “What was her maiden name? I’m just curious.”

“Ruffalo.”

“Ruffalo. So she’s Italian?”

“By half. Her mother was French.”

“I see,” said Arthur. “That’s very American of you.”

“What about you?” said Albert.

“I don’t know much,” said Arthur. He plucked a long piece of grass from the earth, began to shred it into ribbons with his fingertips. “My family, they lived here as long as I can remember. I think my grandparents, on my father’s side—they came from England. They was farmers. But my mother’s side, I don’t know.”

“Do you remember her maiden name?”

“No,” said Arthur. “I know I saw her buried. I remember the funeral. It even said it, her maiden name, on the tombstone, but I can’t remember.”

“You were little,” said Albert. “It’s all right.”

“Yeah,” said Arthur. He tossed the grass into the fire.

“Where is she buried?”

“Baker City,” said Arthur. “Oregon. That I do remember. It’s near the Blue Mountain range. Pretty country."

“I’ll bet. Have you been back there, since she died?”

“No,” said Arthur, shaking his head, growing distracted. He didn’t go on any further, and so Albert changed the subject.

“Arthur,” he said after a minute.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Go on,” said Arthur. “I told you. I’m listening.”

“A long time ago, when we first had that drink together, in Valentine.” He smoked. “I mentioned that my mother may be moving to California. Do you remember?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Arthur. He was coming back from a distant place. “Why?”

“Because she is moving to California,” said Albert. “Finally. She said so in her letter. My uncle, he bought a ranch near the Monterey Peninsula, but he’s taken a wife, apparently, and moving to San Francisco. He’s left the ranch to my mother.”

“That sounds amazing,” said Arthur. “When’s she headed out?”

“Soon.” Albert took one last drag, studied his dirty fingertips, the burned out cigarette, flicked the nubbin into the fire. “It’s a big ranch, with water, stables, a couple different homesteads, privately arranged. It’s on a cliff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, near a town called Carmel-by-the-Sea. She has invited us, Arthur. To come out, to live there. That is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The sky seemed to stop turning, rotating on a dime. Arthur was giving him a look. He had that wrinkle in his forehead, the one that only popped up when he was totally confused. “Come again?”

“After the gallery opening, this Friday, my purpose in St. Denis is very…up in the air,” said Albert. He removed the cigarette case again, took out another cigarette. “Things can change, if we let them. We have a place to go. Both of us.”

“She knows about me?"

"Yes," said Albert. "She does."

Arthur seemed lost for words. "Al."

“Yes?”

“Why the hell are we talking about this now?” said Arthur. “Midnight, in the enchanted forest. You brought up your mother’s letter yesterday morning. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“Because,” said Albert, sighing. “I panicked. To be perfectly honest, I was terrified.”

“Terrified?”

“That you would say no,” said Albert. He lit the cigarette. “I just—I know you, Arthur.”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t know a lot about your gang and what you do, but I know you.” He smoked, fanned the smoke out of the air. “You’re a loyal man. You value your relationships—with John, his family, Mary Beth. God knows there must be more.”

“And?"

“And I’m asking you to leave them, and to come with me, to California.” Albert cleared his throat, shook his head over and over again through the smoke. “I love you so much,” he went on. He was lost, in his own idiotic rambling. He closed his eyes to get lost further. “I want you, selfishly, to myself, to be with me, to let me take care of you. But I know there is a chance you’ll say no. And if that is the case, then I want you to know, that is okay. If that is the case, then I’ll stay. We don’t have to go to California. Not now. We can wait, or stay indefinitely. I’d like to get out of that apartment. It’s too small. So maybe we can lease a bigger place, in the city, or we can buy a place, or buy a cabin outside it. If that is what you want, to stay, then I will stay. I can make that work. But I don’t want you getting shot, or getting hurt anymore, Arthur. It worries me sick. Every time you walk out the door, every time you leave. So if it is the case, that you want to stay, then we need to...talk about that, honestly. Figure something out so that I know, rationally, what to expect. Or else, we can leave. I won’t lie. I want to do this with you. I want to go west, and I did before we met, but more than anything now, I just want to be with you. I want you to come with me, as it is a chance at a new life, privacy. A home. I want you to come with me, Arthur. I want you to let me keep you safe. I will stay. I will do whatever you want, whatever it takes, but know that what I want is for you to leave, with me.”

All around them, the wilderness was breaking into pieces. It was atomizing, becoming all of the same things from the distant places they were born. Albert glanced at Arthur who was staring down at his hands. He always seemed to be doing that, looking down at his hands as if they were the source of all his wisdom, and all his strife. The loons and the coyotes cried distantly, and the stars overhead swam around like little fish in a dark sea.

“Okay,” said Arthur, out of nowhere. He nodded his head, as if resolved.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I want to go with you.” Arthur was looking at him now like it was no big thing, his hair gold from the casual firelight and falling in his face. “When do we leave?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Listening for this chapter: "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie _
> 
> _([youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0Iv4onsrIE) | [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/4FF4q2qyOsFhRavZ0bdVXT?si=1KHIcryWR3qYt6vsEg54zg))_


	10. Was life always this strange?

Albert’s opening at the gallery in St. Denis was a pretty affair. The space was small, but the owner decorated with subtle bouquets of chamomile, and lavender sprays which made the room smell almost as good as the open fields in the Big Valley. Albert drew a well-established following of collectors and debutantes, as well as fellow artists and photographers who had traveled a long way, and who seemed to know him beyond his art and asked him questions about his life and about his mother, too—_How have you been since Haverford? Is Cynthia well? Your work has changed so much, Albert. Explain your muse. _Arthur had gone with Josiah to the barber for a shave that afternoon and then the tailor where he bought a simple but elegant brown jacket to wear over his white shirt with the French-cut collar. He didn’t want to look too fancy, just put together. Josiah was very good with aesthetics.

“You want to look like a cowboy,” said Josiah. “But not _too _much like a cowboy. If you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” said Arthur, studying himself in the mirror.

“You are more than just a guest tonight, Arthur,” said Josiah. “You’re a muse. People are going to see your face in those photographs. They’re going to want to meet you. Do you have anything prepared?”

“Like what?” said Arthur, straightening his cuff links.

“Like, a backstory? Something interesting to tell about yourself.”

Arthur shrugged. “I reckon I’ll just make some things up as I go along.”

“I thought you were the master conman,” said Josiah.

“That’s Hosea,” said Arthur. “Though I’ll admit, he has taught me a fair bit over the years.”

“I’m sure he has.”

Arthur sighed. “I just don’t want to look like a fool,” he said. “I’d prefer not to be memorable, if we’re being honest, but more than anything, I don’t want to look like a fool.”

Josiah gave him a canny look. “I’m sure you’ll be a hit, dear boy.”

“Albert is the hit,” said Arthur. “I’m just…a nobody. And to be frank, I quite like it that way.”

“Being a nobody?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, straightening his lapels. “Just being in the background. Not taking point, for once.”

“I believe I understand that,” said Josiah, smiling. “At least when thinking from your point of view.” He stood in front of Arthur in the mirror, helping him with his collar. “You look very good, Mr. Morgan. Almost upstanding.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Arthur. He did not know if he felt upstanding, but he felt better than he had in some time. It was almost enough to make him suspicious of his happiness, a nagging anxiety that he knew best to ignore.

Now, Mary Beth stood in her fanciest dress, holding a glass of champagne and making idle chit chat with a man in a top hat who said that he was from Philadelphia and that he had known Albert from childhood. This man’s name was Delvin Montague, and he was a businessman in town on holiday. He seemed interested in Mary Beth for her broad vocabulary and contradictory disposition as some sort of country bumpkin with a pretty face. She read him easily and on any other day, he would have been a mark. But she was not pickpocketing today. At least not here. Today, she was just an attendee at an art gallery opening for her friend Albert Mason, the nature photographer.

“Excuse me,” said Albert, interrupting them to say hello. He shook Delvin’s hand and after some rote pleasantries, sent him on his way. He then stood by Mary Beth’s side with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. He said to her, “Thank you for coming, Miss Gaskill. I must say, I’m flattered you're here.”

“Over me?” she said, blushing. “Hogwash, but thank you. I ain’t fancy, but I do appreciate the invitation.”

“No hogwash about it,” said Albert, rocking back on his heels as he regarded the room. He was well-groomed that day, very sharp. “Do you think I know any of these fancy people here,_ really _know them?” he went on. “They never gave a shit about me until this day. They are here mostly to make acquaintance with each other, or to worm their way into my connections at the gallery for their own gain. It’s always something under the surface with these people, I assure.”

“Golly,” said Mary Beth, scandalized. “And I thought I lived the gutter life.”

This amused him. “I assure you, everyone here looks glamorous and experienced, Mary Beth, but they’re just…imprints. Of culture, and wealth. There’s nothing inside. Not all of course, but most. I wish I could say I did not used to be one of them.”

“Oh, please,” she said, smiling. She put her hand on his wrist briefly and then hid it away. She was so demure, he thought, but he could tell that she had seen more than she let on. She was not a spring chicken, or a child. She had some telltale roughness around the edges, like Arthur. But she was very pretty, uniquely so with all of her wild freckles. He wanted to photograph her but he thought it would be impolite to ask, as they did not know each other that well. “Ain’t nothing phony about you, Albert. You’re just you. I can tell.”

This made him warm around the rim of his collar. “Well, thank you, Mary Beth.”

“The pictures are good!” said John, coming around out of nowhere with his champagne. He had his hair combed to one side and everything. “I like the ones of Arthur best. I never seen him so…I don’t know. In his element, I guess.”

“Thank you, John,” said Albert. “And thank you for coming. I agree. He’s a good subject.”

“Where the hell is he, anyway?” said John, looking around. The room was bustling. Servants popped in and out with silver trays of champagne. “I saw him just a second ago.”

“He’s over there,” said Albert, nodding toward a corner where they saw Arthur holed up with some wild Frenchman with a pencil mustache. He looked utterly confused.

“He looks like he needs rescuing,” said Mary Beth. 

“Nah,” said John, sipping his champagne. “It’s good for Arthur to be in over his head every once in a while. He needs to…let go. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” said Albert, smiling. “And I agree.” He took his leave then, at the behest of both John and Mary Beth who assured him that they might look out of place but that they were just fine. He crossed the room, shaking hands, making small talk as he went, but never lingering for too long. He was proud of the turnout and even prouder of his work on display. He nosied into Arthur’s conversation and, despite his earlier exchange with John, rescued him. Arthur looked relieved as Albert smiled and seamlessly dismissed the Frenchman who went away to his business, a little tipsy. Arthur was drinking his champagne while Albert lit a cigarette. Together, they stood at the top of the room, surveying all the people—John and Mary Beth standing casually by the window, joking, and it all seemed okay.

“This is some turnout,” said Arthur. “Very good work, Mr. Mason.”

“Thank you,” said Albert, smoking.

They were not entirely sure how to conduct themselves. Publicly, they existed only as friends. Arthur was Albert’s “muse,” of course. That was the romantic vocabulary of artists. But looking at him, anyone would have to agree that, as subject matter, he was objectively interesting. Everything about Arthur, from the way that he looked to the way that he seemed. He was unique—_uniquely American _was what one of the critics had said. Arthur found this ironic, considering has actual station and his line of work. He was neither swindled by nor too good for the luxury and decadence on display that day. He was a good chameleon, and he knew it. He could fit anywhere, with anyone. It wasn’t a con. It was just his nature.

“What time does this thing end?” said Arthur.

“Nine o’clock.”

“Jesus,” he said.

“You don’t have to stick around,” said Albert. He finished his cigarette, put it out in a nearby ash tray. A man came then to hand him a glass of champagne. “I’ll meet you back at the apartment when it’s over.” He sipped. “Granted, without you here, I’ll die of boredom. So you may be met with a ghost.”

Arthur laughed. “No, sir. I will stay until the end.”

“Perhaps we could corral John and Mary Beth after this. And Mr. Trelawny. It would be fun, I think, to get inordinately drunk with them,” said Albert.

“Well I don’t know about letting John Marston get inordinately drunk in a place of civilized manners,” said Arthur, “nor myself if we’re being honest, but I think a couple drinks would be okay.”

Albert was pleased.

They watched the people go by. Josiah was on the other side of the room making conversation with a very short man wearing a very expensive smoking jacket. He performed a magic trick with a card and a coin and the man looked offended and confused, as if he had just witnessed devil worship.

“Hmm,” said Albert then, something having caught his eye.

“What’s the matter?” said Arthur.

“That man,” said Albert, gesturing to the tall fellow with the light hair, standing with his back to them on the other side of the room. He was looking up at a picture of Arthur and smoking a cigarette with one hand in his jacket pocket. “I don’t recognize him. Do you?”

“Ain’t this thing open to the public?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Albert. “I tried to make them do it, but the owner wouldn’t hear of it. He’s very stuffy that way. The exhibit opens publicly tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe he’s a friend of somebody else’s. Or—”

Albert sighed. “Oh well. I was just wondering. Anyway.”

But Arthur was staring now, at the tall man as the people passed by and in between. He was dressed subtly, blending in, but Arthur could tell that he was not of the same station as the others. He was something else. Arthur squinted, unsure. Then the man turned around, but he did not look at Arthur. It was clear. “Hosea?” he said.

“You know him?” said Albert.

“Yeah, I know him,” said Arthur. “It's just very unexpected. What the hell is he doing here?”

“You said his name is Hosea?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur. He felt his heart sinking, kind of cold, into his gut, as if he had been caught. He handed his glass to Albert, asking if he could hang onto it for him for a minute.

“Of course,” said Albert.

“I’m just—I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Who is he?” said Albert.

Arthur looked at him. He must have seemed a little overwhelmed, as Albert looked genuinely curious now, even a little concerned.

“He’s—can I tell you later?” said Arthur. He placed his hands on Albert’s shoulders. “Please. I’ll tell you everything, Al. I promise. And I will be right back. I ain't going anywhere.”

This took Albert by surprise, the promise. He hadn’t expected this. He was so trusting, so full of patience and calm, nowhere near as bumbling as he had once seemed before they were lovers. He nodded, quietly, and said, “Okay.”

Arthur wanted to kiss him very badly, but instead he just squeezed Albert’s shoulders once. When he turned around, Hosea was gone. “Shit.”

“He went that way,” said Albert. “Toward the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

When he was gone, Mary Beth came over. She seemed to have sensed Albert’s sudden loneliness and she stood by his side with her champagne and said, “Was that Hosea?”

“I believe so,” said Albert, confused, staring after the place where Arthur had disappeared. “It seemed rather urgent.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, sipping. “Hosea is like a father to Arthur. But it an’t that simple. Don’t worry, Mr. Mason. He wouldn’t be here on business.”

“A father, you say?”

“Sort of,” she said. “They known each other a long time. I think since Arthur was something like fourteen? It ain’t my business, but Hosea is good, Albert. He’s kind of a fuck-up, because ain’t we all. But he’s good inside. He’s a good man. He cares about Arthur.” The way she was smiling, he couldn't help but believe her. 

He was grateful. He said, “Thank you, Mary Beth. Would you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Arthur caught up with Hosea right outside the gallery, in some sort of patio. It was open in the middle with plants and vines hanging from the balconies overhead. You could hear the talking from inside and also some music from a gramophone in one of the nearby apartments. The sky above was dark, and the stars were hidden by a thick layer of fog.

“Hosea,” said Arthur. “Hey.”

Hosea stopped, turned around. He had his hands in his pockets. When he saw Arthur, he smiled, but it was strained and distant. Like he was smiling from behind a screen door. “You caught me,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” said Arthur. “You on a job or something?”

“I followed Mary Beth,” said Hosea. He took his hands out of his pockets, studied his knuckles. It was an old habit that Arthur had picked up from him long before. “She left secretively from Shady Belle, and I had a feeling she might be coming to see you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I wanted to see you,” said Hosea. “To know that you were okay. I was a little worried, that’s all.”

“Of course I’m okay,” said Arthur. He straightened up, felt himself getting sucked back into some sort of cycle he had been avoiding. He was embarrassed and ashamed all of a sudden, as if he had been caught in a lie, but he had not told any lies. “Don’t worry.”

“You’ve been very absent lately,” said Hosea. “Ever since that horrible business with Colm O’Driscoll. Jesus Christ, I don't blame you. I’m sorry, son. I should’ve—I should’ve stopped it. We never really talked about that.”

“It weren’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” said Hosea. His smile wilted, saturated in guilt, an intense anger directed at himself. “Even still, you were distant before, Arthur. You have been for some time. I tried to understand, but I never figured it out. I assume now it must have something to do with all this? With that photographer in there. His pictures of you are marvelous. Whatever’s been going on, you should be proud.”

“I am,” said Arthur. “But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say hello?”

Hosea shrugged. He looked older than Arthur remembered, unwell. He coughed into his jacket sleeve, rolled his shoulders back as if he were gathering his courage. “I didn’t tell Dutch where I was going, Arthur. There’s talk around camp that you’re leaving the gang. Dutch is messed up over the rumors, but I’m not here to change your mind. I just wanted to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “I should’ve told you. I don't know why I didn't. Or, I do know. But it was the wrong choice."

“Don’t be sorry,” said Hosea. He smiled, warmly, like he had used to before things got bad. “Things have changed, Arthur. I want you to find something better for yourself, if it’s in the cards. I never thought it was, but that’s my fault. I was wrong.”

Arthur looked away. He looked at his boots and where they were positioned on the expensive stone tiling of the patio. He found himself unable to contain his guilt and endless sadness now, there, in front of Hosea. Being with Albert had pried something open inside him that he could no longer shut. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Is it the photographer?” said Hosea, serious. “You can tell me, Arthur. I’ll understand.”

“I’m not sure you can.”

“You think I stay with Dutch because of his leadership skills?” said Hosea. He shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. Use that brain of yours, Arthur. I know it’s in there, and I know you hear me when I say that. Do you hear me now?”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

“Good. Now, look at me, son.”

Arthur looked up, tried to look right at him, but he couldn’t. It was like staring into the sun, or something worse. He looked slightly away and stood taller than he had been.

“That man in there," said Hosea, "he has something, something that you can have, too, if you want it. Am I right?"

Arthur nodded, once. He closed his eyes.

“Do you love him?” said Hosea.

Arthur nodded again, his eyes still closed. When he opened them again, they were wet, but he wiped that away quickly and bit it back. “He’s descent.”

“I get it,” said Hosea. He clasped Arthur hard on the shoulder. “Now, go back to the party. I don’t need anymore explanation, Arthur. I just came to make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome, son."

Hosea smiled, very twinkling. For he had turned it on again, his charm and irresistible nature, that thing that set him apart from all the other conmen Arthur had ever known in his god forsaken life. He said nothing more, not about when they would see each other again. He did not ask Arthur if he would be returning to camp. He just said goodbye, and he walked away. Arthur said goodbye, too. He stood, alone.

Meanwhile, Josiah had been waiting for them to finish their conversation. He was on the other side of the glass double-doors. He hadn’t heard what they were saying, but he was good with reading people, and he could tell more or less what was going on. When Hosea was gone, he came out and put his arm around Arthur's shoulders. Josiah was a tall man. He was just as tall as Arthur and just as wide. Arthur flinched at first, but then he just sort of gave in. “It’s all right,” said Josiah. “Don’t let it get the best of you, dear boy. Let’s go.”

Arthur dried his eyes secretively on the back of his hand. “What do you mean, let it get the best of me?”

“Hosea means well,” said Josiah, casually walking Arthur back to the party. “He always has, but I’ve known you for a very long time, Arthur. I know the effect he has on you. Him and Dutch. Don’t let it get the best of you. That’s all I’m saying. Remember why you’re here, and what you want.”

Arthur looked at him, confused at first, but then verging on thankful as then he looked away at the walls of the hallway that led back to the gallery. They were painted a marvelous white, the walls, so white it almost served to blind him. He recalled his conversation a couple nights before, up in the foothills, Albert's earnestness. His seriousness when he told Arthur that he loved him. 

When they got back now, Albert was sitting in a chair outside the door, looking bored. He was still holding a glass of champagne in each hand. This sight of him out there, the artist on display, avoiding his own party, was almost comical. It snapped Arthur back into reality with unrecognizable force.

“What are you doing out here?” said Arthur. “You should be inside, Mr. Mason. Mingling. Or, whatever.”

Albert rose when he saw them, handed Arthur his champagne. “I was waiting for you.”

It was silly, thought Arthur, as he took the glass. Sometimes he still did not understand it. But it was all he needed to hear at the time.

That night, they all went to the saloon. After several shots of whiskey, which John had bought, and Josiah’s drunken magician act involving a rabbit escaping from his hat and jumping up the skirts of a very fancy prostitute who had been chatting idly with Mary Beth at the bar, Albert and Arthur stole away and went upstairs to Albert’s apartment, just for a little while. They went out to the balcony to smoke cigarettes and to sit, simply, beside one another, in the stillness and the quiet of the evening. Together, they regarded the foggy night sky and let their pulses slow and their minds go free.

“Hmm,” said Albert, smoking, inquisitive. He was rumpled, his collar loosened since the party.

“What is it?” said Arthur.

“I can’t tell,” said Albert, “if I’m going to miss this place, or not.”

The question was complicated. Perhaps much more complicated than, up until that night, Arthur had realized. “Me neither,” he said. He asked for a cigarette. Albert lit him one off the end of his own.

"Do you ever miss our days in Arcadia, Arthur?" said Albert.

Arthur thought about it. He took a long drag off the cigarette, flicked the ashes, and put his arm around him. "Not really," he said. "But then again, in some ways, I reckon we never left."

They were both telling the truth as they sat, smoking on the balcony, searching for the moon.


	11. You have eased my strife, Mr. Mason.

“When I was about fourteen,” said Arthur, taking a drag off the hash cigarette, “I got in a bind with some fellers in Jackson, Wyoming. It was a rough place, but you could make a living there in a lot of ways. I made mine in cards.”

“What kind of cards?” said Albert. Arthur passed him the cigarette. They were in the sheets, undressed, smoking, drinking whiskey, soaking in the light of the Chinese lanterns. They’d never gone back down to the bar that night, after the gallery opening.

“Blackjack,” said Arthur, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “Poker, too. I wrangled on a couple ranches for a while before that, but the take wasn’t half as good, and the working conditions—well let’s just say I was starving. My pa, for whatever he was nor wasn’t, before he died, had a method for counting cards and memorization, calculating odds and such, which he taught me, when I was nine or ten. From this, I knew how to cheat multiple games in such ways that could not be detected, and given my age and general disposition, it was easy for me to hustle money out of men, particularly those with drinking habits and…unhealthy predilections toward gambling.”

“That sounds incredibly difficult,” said Albert, “and dangerous, given how young you were. Jesus, Arthur.”

“As long as I kept my head down and did not get too greedy, I rarely got anything worse than a smack in the back of the head,” said Arthur, laughing to himself. “I made enough to buy myself a room above the tavern where I most liked to play. The bartender’s wife looked out for me, which was a godsend, let me eat one meal a day for free. And I just remember—I was so glad to be out of the Tetons. They was ravaging my soul, and my body. I was skin and bones back then.”

“What happened,” said Albert. “With the men, the bind.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Right. I got greedy one night. It weren’t smart, took too much. A couple men, they had ten years on me and about seventy-five pounds each, they jumped me after a game. One of them was fixed to kill me with a broken bottle. I was in the alley, just takin a piss. I still remember the full moon, overhead, as one of the guys sucker-punched me from behind. You know I didn't stand a chance. But then a couple other fellers—Dutch and Hosea, that is the night I met them. They came around the corner with their pistols, scared off the riffraff. They hauled me off the ground, took me back to their camp, cleaned me up. They had a reverend with them, and a woman, and she fed me and doted on me till I came to, mentally. It was…terrifying at first. I had no idea what they wanted with me. Turns out they was just helping. I was a bird on the wire. I didn’t know no better. They made me one of them, and we lived pretty hard, but it was not for lack of all comfort. We left Jackson and went south to Colorado, running the boomtowns down there for many years. Then we went on east, north, into the Dakotas and made a run through Chicago. That weren’t for us, but Hosea had business partners there, made a bunch of money on a real estate scam before we split, and that is also where we picked up John.”

Albert was listening intently. He asked many questions that night. “How old was John when you found him?”

“Weren’t more than twelve,” said Arthur. “I was 21. He was so small, I remember. I grew fast as a boy. I was skinny, but I was always tall, even from the time I was a kid, and it’s harder for people to mess with you when you’re tall. You just tend to get more respect. But John grew late. He was just tiny, till he was an older teenager. That day we came upon him, some farmers had been making to hang him outside the city. He’d been stealing their hogs, some grain, but hanging a kid? That didn't sit too well with Dutch. When we picked him up and brought him back, he was mute for a while. We thought maybe…maybe something had happened. Like that he’d hit his head, or something. But eventually he woke up and started terrorizing everybody, everything. He was angry all the time, getting us into trouble with locals, the law. When he finally started to hit manhood, we was back in Utah. I taught him to box, made him shut the fuck up a little, focus. I don’t know, I guess some men need that kind of discipline.”

“What about you?”

“I was taught young to shut the fuck up,” said Arthur, smoking. “My pa, he didn’t really take no lip. Especially not after my mother died.” He looked at Albert, smiled. It was all okay. He wasn’t looking for sympathy or validation. He was just talking. Albert understood this by now. He said, “What about you, Mr. Mason. Are you a disciplined man?”

Albert found this amusing. He looked down at the joint and shrugged. “At times,” he said. “It would depend on what you call disciplined. What do you think?”

“I think you are,” said Arthur, studying him. “In your core, you’re pretty hard to shake from the rails. Steadfast. Even if you are a little frantic around the edges. I ain’t gonna forget the first time we met, wrangling your bag back from that thieving coyote. Or how you almost died that day we went to Valentine, showing off on a goddam cliff.”

Albert laughed. “Yes, well. You made me nervous.”

“Did I?”

“In a way,” said Albert. He reached for his whiskey on the bedside table. He finished it in a single swallow. Then he studied the glass as if he had not held it in a while, or had forgotten what it looked like.

“Did you know?” said Arthur, curious. “I mean, from that first day, in West Elizabeth. Or the wolves in the Heartlands. Them horses, up in the marsh, near the oil fields. Did you know? Did you feel anything?”

“I knew I wanted to see you,” said Albert. “When I would camp, or come back here or stay in a hotel alone. I thought about the next time I might see you. Occasionally, I looked for you, in a sort of, casual way. I kept my eyes open. Whenever you showed up, I am sure I did a wonderful job of feigning my surprise, but I was genuinely relieved. I always felt the chemistry, between us. I just didn’t really know what it was.”

“When did you realize?” said Arthur, smoking down the cigarette. It crackled and burnt off at the end. He put it out in an ashtray on the bedside table. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all.” Albert was looking down at the sheets, which were soft and luxurious, a rich burgundy red. He was recalling. “I think, when we went to Big Valley.” He looked up, right at Arthur. “I was sick. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I thought I was going crazy,” he said, shaking his head, almost like he was talking to himself. “You were so calm in the face of all that nature. Everything about it was sublime. Then, our fingers—they touched, that night, when you passed me a cigarette. Or perhaps I was passing one to you. I'm not sure, but we touched. It hit me then. Struck me like lightning, I suppose. I felt like an idiot, like a school boy. I didn’t come into clarity, not really, until a couple weeks later, when we kissed in the marsh. After that, I was finished.”

Arthur studied his own whiskey glass, still full. From below, you could still hear the people in the tavern, a low, humming delirium. “I think I knew sooner than that,” said Arthur. He took a long drink, exhaled sharply. “That night, after we went to Valentine. I couldn’t get you out of my head. You were all I thought about, for weeks. Of course, it was confusing, but I hadn’t felt anything—not anything, in so long. I couldn’t help it. It was loud inside me, like a drum. By the time we got to Big Valley, I had been working to push it down for fear I was out of my league. Of course, it bubbled up again, came to a head in the marsh. Unlike you, I ain’t so good at putting words on things.”

“You’re quite good with words, Arthur. Give yourself a break.”

Arthur waved him off. “Anyway. You know, two men together ain’t that uncommon on the prairie. Dutch and Hosea, I know they’ve taken…comfort in one another over the years. Women can be scarce, living like we do. Sometimes, they die tragically.” He looked right at Albert, his dark, soft eyes. “But that’s on the prairie. In the eyes of societal living, I ain’t sure what we got is gonna earn you many points, Mr. Mason.”

“If I wanted societal living, I would go back to Philadelphia,” said Albert.

“What about your mother,” said Arthur. “You said she knows about me. Everything, the whole truth?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “The whole truth.”

Arthur took a deep breath. He glanced toward the window, the Chinese lanterns glowing softly against the cityscape outside. “You don’t want children, a family?”

Albert could sense some growing insecurity then, inside of Arthur. They had never talked about this before, so it was not unexpected. He placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder so Arthur would look at him. “The goal is not one thing or the other,” he said. “Why? Are you worried? Is that something you want?”

Arthur smiled, sort of weary, like he’d been had. He said, “I’ve already had that, Mr. Mason.”

“What?”

“I just didn’t get that far yet in my sob story. I’m sorry, Albert.”

Albert was very surprised. He straightened up off the pillow, set down his glass. “I see,” he said, the hair pushed off his face, getting longer by the week. “It's just that you never mentioned. You have children, a child?”

Arthur cleared his throat. "I did," he said. He seemed unaware of how to hold his hands. He laced them together and gazed down upon them. He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I just don't talk about it a lot."

"It's okay."

"It all happened in Montana," said Arthur. "Butte—silver mining town. The girl I met, her daddy was a foreman in one of the mines. She was a waitress at a tavern in the town, and we had…a relationship. One summer. I was about twenty-three. She was nineteen.”

“What happened?”

“A mistake,” said Arthur. “I got her pregnant, like a derelict, couldn’t stick around past September because the law was on my ass. We rode out. I went back a lot of times to see her, and after she had the baby, to see him, too. She let me come back, let me stay with them. She didn’t blame me, nor hate me, nor ask no questions. It was okay. I did my best to do right by her. I brought her as much money as I could every couple months. I just—the boy, he made my life different, for a while. Changed me.” He blinked. He looked away as if ashamed. “One day, ten years ago, I went back there for his fourth birthday. I had bought him a kite. But when I got to the house, they wasn’t inside. They was buried out back, in the ground, under a tree.” He closed his eyes in collection of his faculties. He stonewalled his heart, opened them back up again, then he opened one of his hands to pick at a callus on his palm. “Turns out her daddy owed some money to an outlaw gang that can’t be trusted. They sent a couple men over to her, like a threat. Killed her and the boy, stole her jewelry box. Probably had ten dollars worth of silver inside. I was a week too late.”

Far away downstairs, a woman laughed, loud and lovely, as if inside a memory. Albert stared at him, unable to speak at first. “What were their names?” he said, eventually.

“Eliza James,” said Arthur. He lit a cigarette, smoked it, hung his head. “And Isaac.”

There are times when the air goes out—of talking, of the room. It is still and silent, like floating toward the sun. Unsure of what to do now, Albert put his hand firmly on the back of Arthur’s neck. He sort of tugged him forward until Arthur looked at him, really looked. His eyes were dry and very blue. Albert kissed him, soft at first, then harder, on the mouth until Arthur’s body gave. He tossed the cigarette and pushed his hands up Albert’s bare back. They parted. Albert touched his forehead to Arthur’s and closed his eyes and said softly, “I’m sorry, dear friend.” He had one hand in Arthur's hair, gripped tightly. "Like so much else in your life, that is not something you deserve. I want to—fix it. That is selfish, even to think, I know. I am so sorry."

Arthur seemed relieved, to be honest. Mostly, he was just glad to be rid of the tale. He was always revitalized by Albert's calm talking. “It’s okay, Mr. Mason," he said. "It has been many years. I have dealt with it, and I’m okay. Thank you, though. And you ain't selfish.”

They sat for a while. Even with the emotional gravity of the conversation, the kiss had come spontaneously, leaving them both now hard beneath the sheets, and agitated. Albert asked Arthur what he wanted to do, and as was Arthur’s tendency, he didn’t say much. He studied Albert, that was all, and then he placed his mouth on the soft of Albert’s neck and kissed him. The motion was slow and revealing, pried the moment back open, as he pushed Albert back against the pillow. He was feeling a lot of things and the only thing he wanted to do at this point was to yield. He drug his lips down past Albert’s throat, the dip of his chest, all the way to the base of his cock, which he proceeded to wet generously with his mouth. He then climbed back up to the top of the bed to look Albert in the eye as he worked him in firm strokes, up and down, growing in his intensity until Albert closed his eyes, his head tipped back, and with a low moan, he came. It was very little, as they had already gone once earlier that night, but as Arthur knew, no less pleasurable. He cleaned the spend off Albert’s stomach with his mouth, kissed him and left him limp there, got up to pour more whiskey, which he stood drinking, stark naked in the light from the Chinese lanterns, beside the purple velvet couches near the french doors.

He was very pleased with himself.

“Come back over here,” said Albert, as a lump on the bed. Everything on that bed was expensive, and fine, Albert included. Arthur was no longer tired.

“I’m good,” said Arthur, smiling, sipping. “Why don’t you come over here.”

“I can’t rightly move at the moment.”

“I’ll wait.”

Sometime later, they were dressed in soft clothes and sitting on the velvet sofa, leaning on each other. Arthur was sketching—just something dumb. One of the women he remembered from the gallery opening. She had been wearing a hat that looked like a peacock. Albert had his eyes open, looking at the ceiling, which included a hand-painted silver gilt. The design was Spanish. He recognized it from an art history class he had taken at Haverford years before.

“It’s pretty late,” said Arthur, glancing at the clock on the table. “Almost one.”

“I’ve nothing to do tomorrow. Do you?”

“Not a thing,” said Arthur.

They sat for a while longer, listening to the sounds of the piano and the people from the tavern. John and Ma ry Beth were still down there, with Josiah, getting into god knows what. They’d rented rooms for the night and intended to see it through till morning.

“You thought at all about the opening?” said Arthur. “You think it went well?”

“I do,” said Albert. He sat up, looked around. “Are we all out of hash?”

Arthur nodded to the cigar box on the table.

“You know, I was the envy of everyone at that party tonight.”

Arthur glanced up from his drawing. “How do you mean?”

Albert opened the cigar box, a beautiful piece of timber, hand-carved, from Cuba. He withdrew two cigarettes—lit one for himself, offered the other to Arthur. Arthur declined, so Albert tucked the spare behind his ear and settled back into the chair, smoked with his eyes closed. “The way you look, the way you seem.”

“I look like I rob banks for a living,” said Arthur, continuing to sketch, the round of the feathers in the woman's hat, “which, I do, by the way. Or, did.”

“Sure. But to them, you are a symbol,” said Albert. “Of something authentic, something true, from the past. Maybe you’ve robbed banks, but don’t underestimate your appeal to people like that.”

“People like what.”

“People who have been hermetically sealed inside the safety bubble of their social class. They are unable to fully understand the kind of truth you represent.” He took a long drag, exhaled.

“Do you think that bugs them?”

“No,” said Albert. “Or, sort of. It enchants them. You enchant them. They would like to understand, more than anything, but they are afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Well, yes,” said Albert, smiling to himself. “And the truth, in general. That is why they buy art. To be as close to the truth as possible without ever actually having to live it.”

“And what about you,” said Arthur, grinning. He liked Albert’s anthropological musings on his own kind. He thought it a strength most lacked.

“I’m an artist,” said Albert, performative. “By rule of nature, I get to do more. I move in and out of the truth. I have access to the path. And I have you on the other side, to inspire me…my muse, and they envy me for it.” He smiled, very knowing, set down the glass on the bedside table. “I’m very lucky.”

“Muses are supposed to be naked women,” said Arthur. “Not overworked outlaws.”

Albert lit the cigarette and smoked. “Naked, overworked outlaws work just fine.”

“If you would like to photograph me without my clothes, Mr. Mason, you missed your chance. I am dressed for the evening.”

“Perhaps another time,” he said.

“Maybe when we get out west,” said Arthur, lighting his own cigarette now, shaking out the match and closing his journal. “How’s that sound?”

Albert smiled at him, lazily. His eyes had begun to droop and glaze over with the smoke. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“What do you mean, he’s not coming back?” said Dutch.

He and Hosea were sitting in the gazebo. It was deep night, and the swamps seemed to glow green on the horizon, as if the waters were poisoned. Back by the fire, Javier was playing his guitar. It was a sad song, and Karen could be heard singing along at sweetly drunken intervals.

“I mean that we should expect we may not see him again," said Hosea. "Arthur’s life has grown complicated outside the gang, Dutch. Complicated.”

“In what way?”

“He’s met somebody.”

“Who?” said Dutch. He had been smoking a cigar, but it was cold now between his fingers. “Who has he met.”

“Somebody,” said Hosea.

Overhead, the moon was like a bright socket. Dutch was not angry. He was confused, thought Hosea. He was very confused, looking upon the night as if pained beyond imagining. It was a mixture of his regular drama, and his selfishness. He was a narcissist. Everybody knew. Hosea best of all. But the redeeming thing about Dutch was, that when he wanted to be, he was a good man. He was a caretaker, and merciful. But this was a difficult side of him to coax at times, especially when the night was dark and the future unclear. “Hosea," he said, on and on. "Arthur won’t leave the gang for a woman. That kind of trust in God’s fair creation ain’t in his bones no more. Frankly, I’m surprised you would even think so.” Dutch went to smoke the cigar, but seeing as it was no longer lit, this pissed him off. He tossed it away. "A goddam woman."

Hosea felt something rattling around in his lungs, coughed some into his sleeve. He glanced out past the gazebo wall to where he saw Abigail sitting on the ground, surrounded by the vast perimeter of her skirts, feeding dinner scraps to the dog. Hosea was not prepared to tell Dutch about Arthur and the photographer. It was not his place to do so. “Just take my word on this one, Dutch. Will you, please? Let’s just let this one go. You and me. We don't need him. We got a lot of good guns left. We don't need him, not anymore.”

Dutch looked at Hosea as if he did not recognize his face. “How can you be so cavalier about this, Hosea? He’s our partner. He’s been with us for twenty-two years.”

Hosea stared at Dutch and then past Dutch. It was like looking at a black hole. How many years had gone by since he had last felt love long and hard enough to pluck him from the life? Love is what kept him in the life. It is what he supposed was meant to be, for him. It was how he had lost Bessie. Arthur was his own man, struggling with his own lifelong surge of joy and pain, laughter and sadness. Hosea shrugged. He looked at Dutch and he felt resigned. “Because it is time," he said. "It's just time."


	12. Awake, dear heart.

“If you’re concerned about leaving them behind, then ask them to come with us,” said Albert. It was the next morning. They were getting dressed, getting ready to head down to the saloon to meet John and Mary Beth for breakfast. Apparently Josiah was indisposed with a hangover and could not be bothered.

Arthur was tucking in his shirt. They had been talking about the Marstons. He paused a moment to regard Albert in his level of seriousness. It seemed quite high. The morning was sunny. The room was bright. “Bring them to California?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “I can—I can pay their way. I’m more than happy to do that.”

Arthur fixed his suspenders, exhaled with some gravity at the thought. “John’s gonna have a hard time taking your money, Al. That’s a pride thing. It’s nice of you though.”

“Of course. But the offer is on the table, all right? Will he take your money?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “I think he’s got some of his own, but with a woman and a boy, taking chances without enough—it ain’t smart. John ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s got good instincts. I wonder how much he’s got.”

“You should talk to him,” said Albert. “Maybe he’ll let go of his pride. Or, put it on hold.”

“You don’t really know John.”

“No, I don’t,” said Albert. “But I’ve met him and talked to him enough times to know that he’s generally agreeable. And he’s not anywhere near as difficult as you are, Arthur, when it comes to prying back the lid.”

Arthur gave him a look. “Prying back the lid?”

Albert held his eyes. “I just mean that he's open. More so than you, or I. He's just somewhat...young."

"He's only five years younger than you."

"Five years is enough, and we're very different."

“I get it.”

“Talk to him. See what he’s willing to do.”

Arthur knotted his hair back and stood there. He looked down at his gun belt, where it lie in a pile on the floor. He was absorbing Albert’s observation, which he knew was most certainly correct. “Yeah, okay,” he said, scrubbing at the scruff on his cheeks. “I’ll talk to him. Today.”

“Splendid,” said Albert. He drew quiet then, a little wreath of quiet, hanging in the air.

Arthur looked up from where he was buttoning his collar. “What’s the matter?”

Albert was standing still, fully dressed, looking sharp in a pale blue collared shirt with a navy vest. He was staring at the floor between them. He said nothing.

“You worried?” said Arthur, fishing for his eyes. He found them, eventually. “You’re worried.”

“Somewhat.”

“We’re just bringing in a bounty, Al. It’s legal work.”

“I know,” said Albert. “I don’t really care about the legal part. Just be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” said Arthur. He leaned in and kissed him once. “Weren’t no other outlaw so careful as me.”

A couple of weeks before, John had got a lead on a bounty to collect in the southern bayou region of Lemoyne. The guy was a moonshiner who had killed his two partners in pursuit of their share in the earnings, and was most likely on his way to killing more. The new Sheriff in Rhodes had a strict _NO SHINE _policy and was kind of a stern, mean, and old motherfucker. He chewed on pieces of bark and had been sober since 1883. He didn’t care for outlaws, but he did not disdain them either. He seemed to understand that, inevitably, in the ecosystem of the law, a strategic utilization of organized lawlessness had its direct advantages. He sure as shit didn’t want to hunt down shiners in the bayou himself. Was a lot easier, and faster, to hire a couple young guns with a distinct financial thirst and an understanding of how to discretely circumvent the polite order of things. Plus, his deputies were shit.

John, upon his acquisition of the task, had asked Arthur to assist him. In the meantime, Albert had offered to show Abigail and Jack around St. Denis. They had never been to the city before, and though Mary Beth had initially signed on to do it, she had been called upon unexpectedly by Tilly to aid in a housekeeping scam, and she could not turn down the money.

That day, after Arthur and John left for Rhodes, where originated their lead, Albert, Abigail, and Jack departed the saloon and took a walk around the city. Abigail very much liked St. Denis. The sights and sounds and all of the people filled her with energy. She also enjoyed spending time with Albert. He was a skilled gentleman, a very kind man. He opened doors, pulled out chairs, talked to Jack with a great deal of enthusiasm, and he was soft-spoken, which was calming. Abigail was used to a kind of brute chivalry in men but not to Albert’s sense of refinement. It was, in some ways, intoxicating. He was also very stoic, she thought. He was loquacious, but it felt like kind of a show, to distract from how well he was able to control his inner-self. In this way, he was a lot like Arthur.

The weather was pretty that day, and not too humid. The sun was exquisitely bright, so Albert purchased for Abigail a parasol at the shop of a Russian dressmaker near Chinatown. Abigail was overwhelmed by the gesture. He told her it was no trouble. She was so enchanted by the accessory, however, she felt herself the envy of every other woman on the promenade. She studied the seams and construction of the piece so that she might one day be able to make her own. It didn’t seem too difficult if she could get ahold of the right materials.

“My mother was a seamstress for many years,” said Albert, a surprise reveal, while they walked along the shore of the lake.

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said, smiling. He held his hands in his pockets as Abigail twirled the parasol. Jack had a balloon. He was running up and down the sand with it, chasing pigeons. “Even after she married my father, she still made her own dresses, always has.”

“It’s a good skill,” said Abigail.

“Indeed, it is,” he said.

They had a picnic lunch on a large checkered blanket, which they laid beneath the shade of a magnolia tree. There were not many people about, but more were starting to emerge as the day wore on. Jack had been feeding the ducks, was now asleep in the grass with his hand still full of bread crumbs. Albert was lying on his side, eating grapes, propped up on one elbow. Abigail was leaning back on her hands, with her legs crossed, barefoot, surveying the beauty of the light and how it warmed the green grass.

Albert refilled her glass. They were drinking a kind of elegant sherry, which he had brought from his apartment.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” said Abigail. “Thank you, for doing this. And it’s just been so nice to meet you, spend time with you. I hope I ain’t being too forward.”

“Not at all,” said Albert, smiling. “I have been wanting to meet you, and Jack. Arthur talks about the two of you quite often.”

“He does?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “You seem to play a big role in his daily consciousness.”

She smiled to herself and drank some of her sherry. She glanced to Jack, who was very peaceful. She had not enjoyed a day so much in some time. “Mr. Mason,” she said, after a little while.

“Yes.”

“Can I…tell you something? I really feel I must.”

“Of course,” he said. “Anything.”

She watched him as he watched the lake. She took a deep breath. She was nervous. He was so like Arthur. Impenetrable. It became more and more clear, the more time they spent, making more and more sense. Of course, it manifested differently in Albert. Where Arthur was morose and pensive, Albert was polished and mannered. It seemed a product of his societal upbringing, more than anything. “I just wanted to say that—well. Let me start from the beginning.”

Albert was a good listener. “Okay.”

She straightened up, placed her hands in her lap. The parasol was by her side, folded up, so pretty, like a bird. “I have known Arthur for about five years,” she said, looking down at her hands. “It ain’t that long, in the grand scheme of things. But you get to know people fast when you live with them. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Anyway, I just—I don’t know how to say it.” She looked at him, searched his eyes. They were very dark, like Dutch’s eyes, but they were so much softer around the edges. Almost sleepy. She could understand what Arthur saw in him. “There have been a lot of women, come through,” she said. “A man like Arthur—well, you get it. Tall, good-looking, rough and tough. Kind of mysterious. He’s a hundred licks smarter than any of these other reprobates, too, and that makes him seem unattainable. Women die over that sort of thing. Anyway, Arthur weren’t never a cad, but women have never been difficult for him. He’s had many chances over the years.”

“Yes,” said Albert, following her eyes. “He’s told me.” 

“I’m sure he has,” she said, blushing. “I ain’t meaning to overstep. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not overstepping,” said Albert. “Go on.”

“Okay,” she said. “It’s just that, in the past year or so? Arthur kind of shut down. He’s such a good man, but I was certain he’d be alone forever, that he’d given up on love. You know, when Jack was first born, John weren’t ready. He completely freaked out, disappeared on me. He didn’t come back for near on a year. In the time he was gone, Arthur was so generous. He spent time with me, helped with the baby, provided. He’s very good at that, providing. I always hoped he would find somebody who could provide for him in return. Somebody as generous as he is. Somebody that would love him without trying to change him. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” said Albert, softly.

She smiled. “Anyway, when John told me about you, I’ll admit that I was surprised. It was just so unexpected. But the way he described you, he made it sound like Arthur was finally happy, cared for. And what I wanted to say was, I can see now, why that is. I’m sorry if I sound like a moron. But thank you for letting me talk.” She exhaled, took a big gulp of her sherry, and shrugged.

Albert was warmed. Abigail was very pretty, and she was easy to be around. She reminded him of Mary Beth, just a little bit more practical, blunt. She had seen more. He could tell. He said, “You’re certainly not a moron. An thank you.”

Abigail looked up at the tree top overhead. She was counting birds, bird nests. “This city is so big,” she said after a little while. “I can’t believe it.”

“Where were you born?” said Albert.

“Denver City,” she said. “It booms some, but it ain’t like this. What about you?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

Albert shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He looked away then, as if something had changed.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

He sighed. He picked up his glass, swirled the sherry, but he didn’t drink it. “Nothing is the matter.”

“You’re fretting,” she said. “About Arthur. Ain’t you? I can see it. I could see it all day. You hide it well, but I know what I’m looking for.”

He sipped then, looked at her from over the rim of his glass. After he swallowed he peered down into the sherry, as if he had been caught, and said, “I am, somewhat.”

This sort of warmed her heart. “I get it,” she said. “You know I thought I would get used to it, over time, the worrying. But it never goes away. I’ve just learned to deal with it a little better.”

“How do you deal with it?” he said. “I’m curious.”

“Well,” she said. “I just consider the facts.”

“Which are?”

She kind of squared up with him then. She was an outgoing woman. She didn’t really hold things back or sugar coat. “The facts are, Arthur Morgan is a fast fucking gun, Mr. Mason.” She smiled to herself in reverie, as if recalling happy memories from the past. “Can’t nobody get the drop on him. He’s one of the foremost gunslingers in the west. Universally acknowledged in our circles. Formidable in every goddamn sense of the word. And he’s taught John everything he knows. Together, they can’t be stopped.”

Albert had a crease, between his eyebrows. It only showed up when he was nonplussed.

“By the looks of you I’m guessing you didn’t realize who you had fallen for,” said Abigail. She ate a grape.

“No, no,” said Albert. “I’m quite clear on who Arthur is. I just—I’ve never heard it described in quite those terms before.”

“I hope I ain’t scaring you. Arthur is really a big old pussy cat. He ain’t nothing to fear unless you got it coming.”

Albert blushed. He removed his hat to study the brim. “It’s quite all right. I just—I was going to say that I think I actually saw that part of him once, in action. I just didn’t know what I was seeing at the time.”

“Seriously?” said Abigail. “When?”

“It was a while ago, before we…well, when we were just friends. In Big Valley. We were camped in a meadow, near the creek. A couple of men ambushed us early in the morning, and I was held at gunpoint, and Arthur was as well. But Arthur—he was very calm. It’s almost like, like he was playing with them. When the moment of opportuity presented itself, he disarmed his attacker, shot him dead, point blank. The other man released me and ran off in fear. It was so fast—at the time I was terrified and just relieved for it to be over. But looking back, it was impressive.”

“Yeah. That sounds like Arthur,” said Abigail, plucking a handful of grass from the earth. She had been scooping it all up into a pile when suddenly, she looked at Albert full of remorse. It was as if she had made a huge mistake. “Shit,” she said, squashing the grass pile. “I hope I haven’t said too much. He’s gonna kill me. You truly love him, Mr. Mason. Don’t you? No matter what?”

Albert found this amusing. He had flattened out onto his back, so that he could look at the sky, the sunlight poking through the cracks in the leaves on the tree. He folded his hands on his chest. “More than words,” he said, on no uncertain terms.

“What would it take,” said Arthur. “To get you to leave with me, and Albert. You and Abbie, and the boy.”

They were in Rhodes that night, drinking at the Parlour House, seated in a booth toward the front of the saloon. They were planning to spend the night after interrogating a couple guys in town, at a back alley card game hosted by the local fence. They would head out hunting in the morning.

“Leave with you?” said John. He straightened up boyishly, took off his riding gloves, set them in a pile on the table. “You mean, come to California?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur. “That’s what I mean. Come to California. What would it take?”

“Not much convincing,” said John. “I’ve been wanting to get the hell out of here since Blackwater. But it would take money, I guess. More of it.”

“How much you got.”

“I got about a thousand saved.” He was thinking on it, seriously. “From jobs and such. It ain’t enough though, for the three of us to make a fresh start. You know that.”

“The land is cheaper out there than it is out here,” said Arthur. “Maybe you and me, we could go in on something.”

“Like what.”

“We can talk about it,” said Arthur. “There’s plenty to do. One decision at a time.”

“How much you got?” said John. “Just you.”

Arthur smiled. “I got a lot more than a thousand dollars. I’m gonna hack off a small amount of my savings and leave it to Mary Beth, and Mr. Mason, well—he’s offered. He’ll pay anything, but that ain’t the point. You stick with me, you don’t need to worry about money, Marston. If you want, you can pay me back as we go, but that ain’t my concern.”

“Mr. Mason,” said John, shaking his head and looking down at his bare hands. “Jesus Christ. I wonder what that’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“That kind of money. What’s it look like, Arthur? Has he talked to you about it at all?” 

Arthur blinked. They each had a glass of bourbon. There was a man on the piano, playing a ballad, and many loud women laughing nearby. “Some,” he said, drinking. “Guys like Albert, they don’t really talk about money, but he’s got property, a couple of trusts. I mean, before him, I weren’t even used to sleeping indoors. It’s been kind of a whirlwind.”

John closed his eyes, set his head back against the cushion. “You gonna let him keep taking care of you with it?” said John. “You should. Life’s a bitch, Arthur. Live while you can.”

Arthur chuckled at this. He said, “It ain’t my land in Carmel-by-the-Sea. And I sure as shit ain’t staying here.” He looked at John, in earnest now. He squared up with him and said, “You come with us, with me, that safety net is yours as well as mine. I want you to know that. We lucked out. Somehow, I don’t know. I lucked out, and I’m letting you in on that, free and clear, if it’s what you want.”

John took a deep breath. He was looking down into his cup, and they were listening to the piano. The room smelled like warm beer and cigars. John was nodding quickly to himself, as if making complex calculations in his mind.

“What’ll it be, Marston.”

“Okay,” he said, finally, affirmative. “What the hell.”

Arthur slammed his hand down on the table, a product of anticipation. “Very good,” he said. He held out his hand, John shook it. “It’s the right choice, John. I promise you.”

“I know,” said John. The handshake resolved and they both returned to their whiskey. John was turning the cup in his fingers.

“Not gonna lie. I thought you might be more stubborn.”

“I thought I’d have more pride about it, too,” John said, sipping, “but I don’t know. Lately, I don’t give a shit about pride. I just wanna do right by Abbie. I’ve hurt her too much. And she would want this. She’s gonna be real pleased when she hears.”

“I want you to know that this is unconditional,” said Arthur. “I ain’t wanting for you to pay me back, unless you can. I don’t care about that. It ain’t about me. It’s about you, and your family. I ain’t Dutch. You got that?”

John was staring at him, nodding his head. It seemed like he might start asking more questions—about Dutch, about Hosea, but for the time being, he skipped it. “I got it,” he said. “Thank you, Arthur.” 

“You’re goddam welcome.” He threw back his whiskey in a single gulp, signaled to the barkeep for another. The barkeep gave him a mean look, shook his head, and went back to shining his glass.

“Jesus,” said Arthur.

“They really hate us here.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Hey, Arthur,” said John.

“Yeah.” He was reaching in his pocket for a couple dollars to wave in the air.

“I just—I wanted to say something else, if that’s okay.”

“Shoot.”

“It ain’t about the money, or the going with you to California. I’m all in on that.”

“What’s it about?

“I just wanted to say that…I think you’re a changed man,” said John. It was like falling off a cliff. It came fast and unexpected. “You seem changed.”

Arthur gave him a look. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” said John, like he was feeling stupid. He usually said what he felt. He just wasn’t so good at words, and with Arthur, this tended to embarrass him. “I mean, you’ve always been there for me, even if you hated every minute of it. I get it. I been kind of a piece of shit these past few years.”

“It’s okay. I been there, too.”

“But you—” John continued, “you just seem real sure of yourself these days. That’s all. In a good way. And I don’t mean on the job. You’ve always been sure of yourself on the job—to an annoying degree. I just mean, like you know who you are, and you’re okay with it. Things ain’t always been like that for you. It’s not easy. You know?”

Arthur looked down into the empty glass. He felt warm, though he hid it well. He said, “Yeah, well. I’ve had a lot of positive reinforcement these past few months. Turns out it works wonders.”

“Turns out,” said John. “Anyway, I’m gonna go give this bartender a piece of my goddamn mind.”

“No violence,” said Arthur. “We got business in town.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John went over to the bar. Arthur watched closely as John cussed out the barkeep, plain and simple, and then in crass, but diplomatic fashion, placed five dollars on the counter. Then the barkeep, wide-eyed and furious, gave him a whole bottle of bourbon and told him to get the fuck out and to never come back. “Never come back!” he said. John laughed at him, returned with the bottle, looking like a dog that had just dug a bone. Arthur was none too disappointed, and they left. They camped outside the town on a muddy creek and fished their dinner, like old times. After the meal, they got piss drunk and high off a bunch of hash cigarettes, made plans they would not remember by morning, and passed out when the moon was still high. The next day, they road into the bayou, brought in the bounty, alive, with very little trouble, made a $500 return, handed to them by the surly Sheriff in question.

“You boys come back in the future,” said the Sheriff, chomping on a cigar. “It has been a real pleasure.”

“Maybe,” said John, counting the bills. “Maybe not.”

They split the take down the middle.

“Awake, dear heart,” said Abigail. “Awake.”

Back in Albert’s room, above the saloon, while Jack slept on the couch, wrecked from a long day in the sun, they were reading Shakespeare by the light of the lanterns—_The Tempest. _Abigail read slowly, but with encouragement, she was better than she thought she was.

“Keep going,” said Albert. “You’re doing very well.”

“Thou hast slept well,” she continued, pleased. She liked the play. It was strange. She didn’t know old writing like that could have so much magic. Then, she paused for a moment, set the book down in her lap. She seemed to sense the future. She looked at Albert and said, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” he said.

She glanced toward the door, smiled once. It was spurs, in the hall.


	13. You came into my soul, like a song.

The spurs in the hallway belonged to John. Just John. He knocked. Albert opened the door.

“Hey, Mr. Mason,” said John. He looked a little sweaty, as if he’d been riding a long time. “Is Abbie here with you?”

“Yes, she is,” said Albert. “Do come in.”

“John Marston,” said Abigail, a kind of angry relief as they greeted at the door. They held both their hands together, but the intimacy between them was suppressed, it wasn’t free. He knew from what Arthur had told him, they’d been having a lot of problems, but they were working through it.

“Where’s Arthur?” she said.

“Don’t worry,” said John. “Arthur is fine. He just had to run an errand.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“He said it would be best. He went back to Shady Belle.”

“Shady Belle,” said Albert. “Did he say why?” He felt hypertensive all of sudden. Jack stirred in his sleep. He glanced on instinct.

“He’s going to see Mary Beth,” said John. He removed his hat. “He’s giving her some money, so she can leave.”

“You shouldn’t’ve let him go alone,” said Abigail.

“He’s better all by himself,” said John. He looked at Albert, his scars muffled in the dim light of the room. “It’ll be be okay. He’ll be back before morning. Told me to tell you not to wait up.”

Albert laughed to himself, looked down at his feet.

“Fat chance of that,” said Abigail. “Albert, you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Take Jack and go on back to your room.”

“Okay,” she said. She went over to the couch, scooped up the boy and he sort of flopped over her shoulder as a rag doll. He made little chewing motions with his jaw and ground his teeth in his sleep.

“I hate that,” said John. “Why does he do that?”

“Because you do it,” said Abigail. “Or, you used to.”

“I used to grind my teeth in my sleep?”

“Used to wake me up some nights, when we was in Denver City.”

“Shit,” said John, holding the door for her. “I didn’t know.”

“Thank you, Albert,” said Abigail. “For everything. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, of course,” said Albert, smiling. He handed her the parasol. Then, “John?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you—well, how did it go, on the job?”

John smiled and placed his hat back atop his head. “It went good,” he said. “We got the bastard alive, made some money. Arthur is fine, not a scratch on him. I swear.”

“Splendid,” said Albert. “I was just wondering.”

They said goodnight. John and Abigail went back to their room. Albert put on his jacket and his shoes and went down to the bar. There was nothing else to do. He ordered a whiskey and sat alone in a booth by the window. There was a man playing something on the piano and two woman dancing while drunk and smoking clove cigarettes. It reminded him of college. The bartender was throwing somebody out. There were enough people there, even after midnight, Albert blended right in.

Back at camp, it was very dark. The sky was purple, and it was a full moon, swimming in stars. Arthur had tied up Amelia somewhere far enough from the perimeter of Shady Belle that nobody would see her. Her white coat made her a most recognizable filly. He couldn’t risk it.

Midnight in the swamp, he heard Sadie playing on her harmonica. This meant there were not many about, as she would only play under the illustion of solitude. She was sitting in a chair on the edge of the river, near Strauss’s set-up, but Strauss was not around. He walked right up to her. She looked at him, set down the instrument and appeared embarrassed.

“That’s real nice,” he said. “You should play it more.”

“Arthur,” she said. “I heard rumors you was leaving.”

“I am,” he said. “I just came back first. I gotta find Mary Beth. Do you know where she is?”

“The house, I expect,” said Sadie. “She was in Rhodes for most of the day, but her and Tilly are back now.”

Arthur glanced up at the big old house, looming, haunted and alive with candles in the windows. “Is Dutch here.”

“I don’t think so,” said Sadie. “He left a little while ago.”

“Where’d he go?” said Arthur, lighting a cigarette.

“Not sure. But he was alone.”

Arthur smoked. This didn’t sit right. “Sadie, when I go, John’s coming, too. Things are gonna get…confusing.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Sadie. She pocketed the harmonica. “Me and Charles already talked about it. We’re looking after the vulnerable. Don’t you worry about that. You done your time.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, thinking of Albert. “Thank you, Sadie.”

“So,” she said. She placed a cigarette between her lips but did not light it. “Who is she?”

“Excuse me?” said Arthur.

Somebody was coming up then, out of the darkness. Upon squinting, Arthur saw that it was Mary Beth. She wore a dark scarf over her hair. She was holding a basket full of orchids. “Arthur?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur tossed his cigarette and went toward her with conviction. “I came to see you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I gotta give you something,” he said. He tipped his hat to Sadie, then him and Mary Beth walked up the river bank some until it was they felt completely alone. The fireflies flickered over the tall grasses. The moonlight on the water was bright and still. Everywhere you could hear the sounds of the swamp in the evening, the bugs most of all. Arthur reached into his satchel. He withdrew a thick envelope and gave it to her. Enclosed within was $800.

“What’s this?” she said.

“It’s a gift, from me. A thank you, for taking care of me in my time of need, for being such a good friend. I’m going away, Mary Beth. Like you said I should. With Albert. I’m leaving the gang.”

She looked away, drew quiet. She did not seem surprised, only maybe, a little sad. “I figured as much,” she said, pushing back the scarf, revealing her curly hair, unkempt that night. “I talked to Albert, at the opening the other night. I know about his mother and the place in California.”

He sighed, looking at her, his hand on her shoulder. “I came back tonight to give you that envelope.”

“What is it?” she said. She set down the basket, opened the flap. “Arthur, is this money?”

“Yes,” he said. He removed his hat. “As much as I can spare. I want you to take it and get the hell out of here. Live your dream. Write your books. This ain’t no life for a woman such as you.”

“Arthur, I—” She was counting through the bills with her fingers. “This is too much. I can’t accept.”

“I don’t need it,” said Arthur. “You do.”

She looked up at him, her eyes very clear and reflecting all that light from the moon. They were filling with tears. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She looked down again, at the envelope. Then she placed it in her pocket. She embraced him. He held her on the river bank. “Thank you,” she said, sniffling into his vest. “I will put it to good use. I'll miss you, Arthur. I'll miss everybody, but I'll miss you most.”

“I know,” said Arthur into her hair. “I’ll miss you, too.”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, smiled as they parted. She said, “It’s been quite a time.”

“Yes it has.”

“When you get to California, will you have an address?”

“I will,” said Arthur. “I wrote it in a letter there, inside that envelope. When you get wherever it is you’ll be for a while, you write to me. I wanna know you’re safe.”

“What about John and Abigail, and Jack?”

“They’re coming with us,” said Arthur. “You can come, too, if you want, Mary Beth. The invitation is open. But even if you don’t, that money is an unconditional gift. You owe me nothing. You go where you want, do what you want.”

She looked very starstruck, filled with longing. He knew she would not come. He knew that being close to him would hurt, and it was for the best that they part. She just smiled. “Thank you, Arthur. I think I’ll still go north.”

“Wisconsin?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Madison, maybe.”

“I wish you luck.” He covered her hands in his. “Be careful. Be quiet. Don’t get caught with your hand in nobody’s pocket. You hear?”

“I hear.”

“Good,” said Arthur. “I know you’ll be okay. You’re a smart woman.”

“I try.”

“I gotta go,” said Arthur. “We’re heading out by train in a week’s time. But until then, we’ll be lying low.”

“I’ll write you,” she said. “When I get up north. I promise.”

Arthur placed his hat back atop his head. “Okay, Mary Beth.”

They hugged one more time and said goodbye. Mary Beth went back to the house. Arthur stood up the river bank a little ways from Sadie who had once again begun to play her harmonica. It was the harmonica he had found for her, in a ridge line shack somewhere over in West Elizabeth so many months before. She looked at him, didn’t stop this time. She just nodded. She paused once to salute him as he went. He took one last look at the house and the camp and all of its murky innocence.

Albert was on his second glass of whiskey. He was reading the newspaper. It was an older edition, whatever the bartender had lying around. There was a story about a bank robbery, way up in Valentine. For a moment, he wondered. He lit a cigarette, which he ashed into a crystal ash tray. Thus far, nobody had approached him but saloon girls, looking for his order and lively conversation. Albert was a staple figure in the saloon by now. They asked him about Arthur. He said, “Arthur is well. Arthur will be back soon.” They all loved Arthur, too, though Arthur was more gruff and more likely to smile and nod than he was to chat. They still liked him. They liked that kind of stoicism in a man. It was reassuring. Made him seem strong. Albert understood in his heart of hearts that they all knew the truth by now, about him and Arthur. They must have, and yet, they did not judge him. They did not even ask.

“Howdy,” said a man’s voice, out of nowhere.

Albert looked up and saw a stranger.

“Hello,” he said.

The piano still went on in the background, real loud. The place was not raucous but it was bustling enough. The stranger was very tall, as tall as Arthur, thought Albert, perhaps even taller. He slid into the booth, across from Albert and folded his hands on the table. It was a presumptuous move. Albert wondered if, for a second, he was supposed to recognize him. He did not. The stranger removed his hat, had black hair curling behind his ears. He wore many gold rings, and at first, Arthur took him for a particularly ostentatious dandy, but upon further inspection, noticed the wear in knuckles, and the ornate engravings upon the handle of the gun in his belt. They were a lot like the ornate engravings in the various handles of Arthur’s guns.

Albert set down his paper. It was warm in the saloon, a little stuffy. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “How may I help you?” he said.

“It’s sure hot in here,” said the stranger. He adjusted his collar. “You’d think they’d open a…window or something.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “You’d think.” He waited patiently for the man to explain himself. He didn’t seem particularly drunk, or lost. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Are you Albert Mason?” said the man. “The nature photographer?”

Surprised, Albert straightened up off the table. “I am,” said Albert.

“I thought so,” said the man, grinning, nodding. “What a wonderful happenstance, you should be here, tonight.”

“I suppose,” said Albert. “Were you at the opening, the other night? I don’t remember you, though it’s possible I did not meet everyone.”

“No, I was not,” said the man. “But one of my associates was there. He mentioned you, and your subject matter.”

“I see,” said Albert. “Well, thank you for stopping by, saying hello.” He smiled.

“You’re welcome,” said the man, looking around. He beckoned to one of the saloon girls, ordered a glass of scotch. The girl who came over, Josie, blushed upon his flirtatious charm. Then she went away. “So, what’s Albert Mason, nature photographer, doing here in the saloon all alone on this fine evening?”

Albert set down his paper, folded it in half. Realizing he had been sucked into some sort of conversation with a man he did not know, he did his best to engage his social graces. Truth be told, however, they were rusty, and he was tired. “Nothing much,” he said. “Just enjoying a drink.”

“You live around here?”

“I do,” said Albert. “But only on a temporary basis.”

“Is that right?” said the man. Josie came back with the scotch. The man thanked her and called her _my dear. _“Where you headed?” said the man, sipping. “I mean, when you leave St. Denis.”

“West,” said Albert, growing suspicious now. It was an odd question.

“West, huh?” said the stranger, stretching out his arms, casually resting them along the back of the bench. He had an enormous wingspan. Like the condors Albert had once photographed in Tallahassee. “Business or pleasure?”

“A bit of both,” said Albert. He folded his hands on the table. “Before we continue, might I ask your name? I mean, if we’re going to sit here, having a conversation at the saloon, I should know what to call you.”

“Oh,” said the man. He lit a cigar from his pocket. Puffed off the end. “I thought I’d introduced myself.”

“No, you did not.”

“My name is Dutch.” He placed the cigar between his teeth, held out his hand for a shake, “van der Linde. It’s extremely nice to meet you, Mr. Mason.”

“Ever since we fled Blackwater,” Abigail said that night, back in the room, the moonlight pitching through the windows, “Dutch has been…different. John, I’m scared.” Her hands were shaking as she smoked. They had been talking about the plan, going west to California. Jack was asleep on the bed. “I am ready to go, John. You know I am. But I’m scared that Dutch might view this as some sort of…mutiny. He ain’t stable. He’ll threaten your lives. You and Arthur. If he has his way, I just—”

“Hosea already knows the truth,” said John. “About Albert, and about us leaving, everything. He already gave Arthur his blessing.”

They could hear the piano downstairs. It was a pretty song, slow and dark.“You think Hosea can make Dutch see reason then?”

“Maybe,” said John. “It always was that way, growing up around them.”

“I don’t know,” she went on, smoking. “Maybe. I just—I still worry. I’m worried about you.”

“I know,” said John. “I know you are. Abbie, look at me.”

She was gazing at him then, stars in her eyes. She was softening. “You ain’t gonna flake out this time,” she said. “I can see it, in your eyes. That’s scaring me, too.”

“Why?” said John. “I swear it, Abbie. It’s different this time. I’m with you now. I promise. You and Jack.”

“How?” she said. “Why? What happened?”

John shrugged. He took the cigarette out of her hand and set it in the ash tray. Then he gathered her hands up into his own, so chivalrously, and he held her knuckles to his lips. “A lot of things happened,” he said. “Arthur helped me see all them things I done, bad things. To you and to Jack. I’m sorry. I’m gonna earn back your trust, if it’s the goddam last thing I do. And Arthur, he’s gonna help us out. The two of us, we got plans for once we get out there, maybe go in on a livery or something.”

“A livery?”

“Sure,” said John, squeezing her hands tightly. “Ain’t nobody better with horses than Arthur. And I ain’t so bad.”

“No, you ain’t,” said Abigail.

“It’s settled, okay?” said John. “You don’t need not worry. No more being afraid. I got this. Trust me, Abbie. Please, try. We’re leaving by train in one week.”

“What’ll we do till then?”

“Lay low,” said John. “We’ll stay here. Dutch ain’t gonna interfere. I’m gonna go back to Shady Belle myself, once, maybe in a couple days when things quiet down, get whatever it is we left back there, all our money. I’ll be real quiet about it, and then I’ll be back, and then we’ll disappear.”

“Disappear,” said Abigail.

“Go west,” said John. “I should have said, _Go west. _We ain’t disappearing. That’s Dutch’s point of view. From our point of view, we ain’t disappearing, Abbie. We’re starting over. Starting fresh. A new life.” He was smiling, real bright, and she believed him, because she wanted to.

Many years later, living in a humble ranch home in Carmel-by-the-Sea, Abigail would never again feel the unrelenting chill of winter in her bones, and she would drink French wine while wearing a long dress in late summer and remember how, amidst a life of scoundrels and sin, she had still somehow managed to surround herself with gentlemen.


	14. My love.

It took a moment, in the saloon, like the clenching of a fist. The pianist switched songs, to something slower and darker. Albert shook Dutch's hand.

“I assume that, based on your acute sense of surprise, you have heard of me," said Dutch.

“Yes, I know who you are,” said Albert.

Dutch studied his knuckles. “I am surprised to find you alone,” he said, “without Arthur.” 

Albert placed his hands in his pockets under the table. He raised his chin but continued to look down at the filigree of the place mat beneath his newspaper. “He’s not here,” he said. “He was out, on a job. He hasn’t yet returned.”

“That’s right,” said Dutch, nodding, admiring the end of his cigar. The smoke filled the air between them. “The Rhodes bounty. How did it go?”

Albert didn’t answer. He just stared, waiting.

“I asked you a question, Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Albert.

"I just thought that, given the opportunity, I should meet you,” said Dutch. “I wanted to meet the man who has…somehow convinced my partner to leave his life, everyone and everything he knows, behind. Many have tried in the past, and failed. It is truly magnificent.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Albert, “I gave him every out. He did not take much convincing.”

This struck a nerve. Dutch’s eyes got dark. “How much has he told you?” he said. “About me?”

“Some,” said Albert. “Mostly good things.”

This seemed to confuse him. “Good things?”

“Yes,” said Albert. “He told me how you saved his life in Jackson when he was a teenager, how you helped him and gave him a second chance. He told me you were like a father to him for a long time. He told me that he thought you had lost your purpose in recent years, something that worries him, but that he relates to. He told me that you would be okay, as long as you have your partner, Hosea, by your side. He also told me that you would try to find us, and that you would succeed if we were not careful. I have to ask, how long have you been keeping tabs?”

Dutch was leaning now, way over the table, his face at less than a foot of distance. He looked intrigued. His voice was quiet. “I have not been keeping tabs on you,” he said.

“How did you know I would be here.”

“I didn’t,” said Dutch. “I followed John, out of Rhodes. He led me here. He is not as smart as Arthur. Never was. I know that Arthur is at Shady Belle. Or, that is where I assume he has gone, to see Mary Beth, or to pick up his belongings.”

Albert blinked rapidly. He tried to calculate the best way to proceed. “If you knew Arthur was at Shady Belle, and you wanted to see Arthur, you should have gone to Shady Belle. As it stands, you followed John.”

“As it stands.”

”Your use of subterfuge is advanced, Dutch,” said Albert, “but I’m well-versed in the verbal acrobatics of sociopaths. I come from money.”

Dutch took a deep breath and smiled. "Pretty goddam bold, Mr. Mason."

“I’ll pay you off,” Albert continued, adjusting his sleeves. “Arthur wouldn’t like it, but if that’s why you’re here, for my money, just say so. I have little use for it. Perhaps I should have just started there.”

“I know all about your money,” said Dutch. “I know all about you, now that I’ve met you. You need not say anymore. I would wager you are from the eastern coast. Philadelphia, or New York.”

“That’s correct.”

“Modest wealth,” continued Dutch. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, holding his cigar in the air. “You’re not a Rockafeller, but it’s always been silver spoons in your mouth, hasn’t it now?”

“More or less,” said Albert.

“I don’t want your money, son. The only thing I want,” said Dutch, running a hand over his hair, “is to understand what you want with Arthur.”

“What do you mean.”

“I mean, he’s an outlaw.” He placed his hands back on the table, forcefully. It shook beneath the impact. “He’s got a price on his head in two states, Mr. Mason. The federal government is willing to pay for his apprehension, dead or alive. He’s dangerous. Isn’t that what your people would think?”

“I’m not sure,” said Albert. “Most of _my people_ are unaware that men like Arthur even exist.”

“How did you become aware of men like Arthur?”

“I met him, randomly, one day in West Elizabeth. He helped me on a project for many months. You can see the fruits of our labor in the St. Denis Art Gallery, if you are so inclined.”

“I understand that,” said Dutch. “The two of you became friends?”

“That’s right.”

Dutch studied him. “You must be pretty close, if he’s leaving the gang for you. Getting on a train with you, going west.”

“We are very close friends,” said Albert.

“The kind of friends who…see the night through with one another? Who welcome the morning light from the comfort of one another’s arms?”

It was a strange way of putting things, almost pretty, thought Albert. He knew enough about Dutch not to lie. “Yes,” he said. “In a most poetic sense, yes. That is true.”

“Arthur’s done well for himself then.”

”Whatever you say.”

”Why so coy, Mr. Mason.”

“Because I don’t trust you,” said Albert. 

“Smart man. I can understand what Arthur sees in you. You're more assertive than you look."

“You don’t have to act this way," said Albert. "You can just approach men, normally, and have conversations, even awkward ones, without attempting to intimidate, or manipulate them into saying something unwise, which you’ll then use against them later.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Albert. He folded his hands on the table. “You may talk with an affect that rings of the prairie, but your methods of persuasion remind me of the eastern coast.”

“I’m from Philadelphia,” said Dutch, squaring up with him unexpectedly.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” said Dutch, almost like he was proving a point. “A lucrative dairy farm, outside the city line. My mother came from some money, but not like yours. My father was in the Army of the Potomac. He fought and died in Gettysburg when I was a boy. After I came of age, I left that place. I have never returned.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Albert.

"Thank you.”

“My father is also dead, though he died on no such heroic terms. Still, he was a good man.” He wiped his forehead again with his handkerchief. Then he tucked it neatly into his pocket. “I just want you to know that this is not about you, Dutch.”

“What is not about me.”

“Arthur leaving. I think you care about Arthur, and that is ultimately why you are here. You need to make sure, on no uncertain terms, that he is not making the mistake that you are sure he must be making. But please realize that he is not trying to hurt you, and I am not trying to hurt him.” Albert looked away. He was not ashamed, but he didn’t know how to say it, what he needed to say. He was never lost for words. He told the truth.

“You love him,” said Dutch.

Albert took a deep breath. He said nothing.

“As do I.”

"Fine,” said Albert. “But you should know that he came to me, after he was tortured by one of your enemies. He was injured and alone, and he needed to be cared for. Why is that? You’re supposed to be his family, aren’t you?”

“We cared for him,” said Dutch. “His life was saved. I cared.”

“You may think that,” said Albert. “And I know there are people in your gang who care deeply for Arthur. I’ve met them, but in my detailed observation, and based on the information I’ve been given and have gleaned for myself, those people are not you.”

“Do not presume to know anything about me, boy,” said Dutch, growing cold with suspicion. He brought his face in so close now, Albert could smell his cologne. It was expensive. This surprised Albert, though it made sense, now that he knew more about him. “Do not presume to know anything about me, or my relationship to Arthur."

"I apologize."

"I’ve known Arthur for twenty-two years," Dutch went on. "How long have you known him, Mr. Mason? Five months? Maybe six? You are but an infant in the grand, roaming scheme of our lewd and licentious lives. You abide your privileges, your tasteful living of the upper crust, achievement without struggle. You lust freely in and out of the filth that lurks beneath your immaculacy, for kicks, taking what you desire, and leaving the rest to decay.” He scooped his hand through the air between them, abruptly, snatching an imaginary prize. Then, he proceeded to point. “Arthur is not your pet, or your project. He has struggled his whole life simply to survive, _dear boy_, and I have been there, every step of the way since he was barely more than a child. Do not tell me whether or not I care.”

“With respect to my relationship with Arthur, I have undertaken no such actions, and certainly never for _kicks_."

“Arthur will say anything to defy me," said Dutch, ignoring him. "He is full of drama for this life, and he always has been, even as he has managed to excel. You know so little.”

Albert cleared his throat. He realized it was a mistake, as it sounded like he was trying to interrupt, but he didn't care. “I saw what happened to him,” he said. “A close-range gunshot wound in his shoulder. He had to remove the bullet and cauterize the wound himself, which left so much scar tissue, it still hurts him sometimes. He had so many broken ribs, it took him weeks to be able to ride a horse again without significant pain. Did you know that?"

Dutch said nothing.

“I am not trying to—he is not a project,” said Albert, trying to understand Dutch's point of view, even as the night was getting long, and he was angry. “I can see how you might think that, but that is not what this is. And I may not be familiar with your way of life, but I know enough. Prove as you may that I was not a part of Arthur’s tragic teenage landscape, or that I am a product of privileged, societal hubris—a fact of which I’ll not argue, mind you—I know Arthur very well, as a man. He tried to hide it from me, what happened to him, as he hides so much. It took him a long time to open up, and he is still opening up. More every day. All of this is to say that Arthur is anything but dramatic. He never complains, nor does he exaggerate his ills. You claim to know him so well, and yet, it seems that every time you try to describe him, you are simply describing yourself.”

Dutch was staring now, his mouth hanging open, as if he aimed to catch flies. He looked nonplussed, having been done an egregious wrong. “What did you say?”

“I took care of him,” said Albert, “when he came to me that night. I will continue to take care of him, always. I will do it because I love him. But more than anything, at the end of the day, I just want him to be safe, unhurt, and while I believe that you may, in your way, love him, too, Dutch, I am not sure that you can say the same of the latter.”

Dutch changed then. He became dreamy and disconnected. You could hear the sounds of the piano and the dancing girls, almost distant. “You are right,” said Dutch.

It was a strange thing.

“What?”

Then, Albert watched as Dutch was dragged from the booth and tossed, violently, unsuspecting, to the flat of his back on the floor. Albert stood as soon as it happened. It was Arthur. He must have snuck in, snuck past them both, somehow, without being seen.

“What are you doing?” Arthur said to Dutch, shaking his head, with his hand on his gun. He didn't address Albert yet, not at first. He seemed too incredulous. “Dutch, what are you doing?”

Dutch looked up at him. Seemingly confused as to how he had gotten there, he held his hands up, in surrender. “We was just. Talking.”

“Just talking?” said Arthur. He glanced at Albert now, assessed his physical person, then back to Dutch. He seemed profoundly disappointed, verging on a kind of concentrated, past-protocol anger that Albert had not really witnessed before. “What else would you be doing?”

“You think I’d hurt your gentleman friend here?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “You’ve hurt a lot of other innocent people in these final months of our reign together. Why the hell are you here, Dutch?"

Dutch hauled himself off the floor, proceeded to dust off his pants in a gentlemanly fashion. He looked at Albert, and then he looked at Arthur. He said, "I came to see you."

Arthur took a deep, harsh breath in through his nose. He closed his eyes momentarily, as if gathering his will power. “Did you follow John?” he said. 

Dutch sighed. “You know he can’t cover a trail to save his life.”

“Well I guess I shall keep holding out hope then.”

"Hosea told me you was leaving," said Dutch. He put his hat back on his head, still visibly shaken from having been tossed to the floor. "He let slip that he had seen you at a photography exhibit in St. Denis. All I had to do was ride into town, walk by the art gallery, and I had a name. The bartender pointed out Albert to me. With very little convincing, might I add. I believe he's inebriated. You ought to beat the breath from his lungs." 

“I ain't gonna do that," said Arthur. "I ain't like you."

“I came to beg you stay, son,” said Dutch. "That's all."

“Why?" said Arthur. "Why on earth would you beg me to stay? You ain't shown me nothing but contempt since we fled Blackwater. You don't trust me, Dutch, and I don't trust you. Not no more. So just be rid of me. Let me go."

"How can I do that?"

"You just do it," said Arthur. "That's all. But I'll tell you what you don't do. You don't come here and threaten him. You threaten him again, that’ll mark the end of my composure, and there ain’t gonna be no glory in it for you, Dutch. No glory. Do you understand?”

“I did not. Threaten him.”

“You was raising your voice to him,” said Arthur. “You put your face pretty goddam close to his face. What am I supposed to think? Where I come from, that’s a fighting distance.”

“Where you come from?” said Dutch. He looked around, as if being met with an audience. The saloon did not notice them anymore, not really. There had been some attention paid, initially, when Arthur had put him to the floor, but that sort of thing was part and parcel in the saloon after midnight, even in St. Denis. “It seems to me you have forgotten where you come from, Arthur. Leaving, going back west, without us? Without me? We was partners. _Partners. _For twenty-two years. How can you do that, to us? How can you forget, after all we been through.”

“I ain’t forgotten.”

“All this…struggle. We was a family.”

“I will never forget,” Arthur corrected him. “Don’t you make that misunderstanding. I will always be grateful for what you gave to me. I’m just gonna make the most of it now. That’s all this is. It ain’t about you, Dutch. It’s about me this time. Me. That’s why I was leaving without saying goodbye. I knew you would not understand. I had hoped that Hosea would be able to convince you to see reason, but I can see now, with you here, trying god knows what with the person I love—that was foolish.”

“Arthur, please.”

Arthur turned toward Albert, ignoring Dutch, and his pleadings. He was looking at the floor, striving for calm. Albert could see it in his eyes, in his fists, clenched tightly by his sides, one of them lingering very close to the volcanic in his belt. In a plea to bring him back to stasis, Albert clasped his hand to Arthur's shoulder and shook him, just a little. Arthur looked right at him then, and Albert said, "It's okay, dear friend."

"You don't know him."

"I know," said Albert. "I know."

Dutch had backed away, a couple steps. He still had his hands up.

"You gotta go, Dutch," said Arthur, wincing like he was in pain. "I am finished. Tonight, more than ever."

"Arthur—"

"If you follow us," said Arthur, "or try to find us, at any point in the future, I swear to the holy that I will not hesitate to end your life. Now, go."

Dutch looked upon him as if teetering on the edge of a high cliff. Albert did not know what was going to happen. He did not know. But even as the room was still filled with voices and bravado, nobody cared. Nobody looked to see. The bartender had put on the gramophone while the pianist smoked a cigarette and laughed with a women in a smoky corner. The gramophone was playing something obscenely French. Josie, the saloon girl, came back around again, looking for orders. She stopped just before the stand-off, uneasy. She had long, dark hair that fell in a soft braid over her shoulder. She was very young and beautiful, probably only nineteen or twenty years old. She looked at Albert. She said, "Is everything okay?"

Albert nodded. She looked at Arthur. "Hey, Mr. Morgan," she said. "You look like you need a drink. Whiskey? You want water?"

Arthur realized then that he had become more familial with the saloon girls of St. Denis than he had with anyone from his former life. It snapped the moment in half, like a bone. He said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be back." She touched his wrist, didn't go yet. She glanced to Dutch, but she sensed something now and stayed quiet. She didn't yield to him, like she had before.

Dutch cracked his knuckles, looked at her, sadly, his eyes as shell casings. He looked at Arthur, too. "I have lost you," he said, almost like he was talking to himself.

Nobody said anything else after that. Or maybe somebody was talking, but it was all static. Dutch reached into his pocket. He tossed a handful of coins onto the table. He staggered to the bar, where he stood for a moment, alone, with his head down, leaning on the counter. Arthur looked at Albert for just a moment, and when he looked back, Dutch was gone.

"Albert," said Arthur.

"Everything's fine," said Albert, after a moment. "He surprised the hell out of me, got in my face a little bit, but he tried nothing."

Arthur was silent, filled with regret for having separated from John, for having left the opportunity open at all. He wished away the fears that overtook him that night. "Okay," he said.

"Who was that man?" said Josie. "He looked so familiar. I think I seen him in the paper."

Arthur thanked her, and he tipped her generously, even as he cancelled his whiskey order.

The altercation had been bitter and upsetting. He and Albert went upstairs to where they could finally be alone. Arthur sat down on the purple sofa in the light of the Chinese lanterns, looking up at them, like they were gods. They knew all. They had seen all. 

"You're sure you're okay," said Arthur.

"I'm sure," said Albert. "Did you find Mary Beth? Back at Shady Belle?"

"I did," said Arthur, holding his hat in his hands. "She is set to go."

"Where will she go?"

"North," said Arthur. "She wants to go to Wisconsin. Supposed to be nice up there, real free. I told her to write me when she was safe."

"Good," said Albert. "That's very good."

"Al, I'm so sorry," said Arthur. "I should've come back. I shouldn't've gone to Shady Belle without telling you first."

"I wish you would have," said Albert. "But it's all right, I understand. I wasn't afraid of Dutch. Not really. I see how he could be extremely dangerous, but tonight he seemed...disorganized. Unhinged. I almost felt sorry for him. I was more worried he had done something to you, to be honest, and that that's why he was here."

Arthur smiled with a slight abandon, put his hand on Albert's knee. "You've come a long way, Mr. Mason."

"Have I?"

"First time I met you, you nearly fainted at the sight of a coyote," said Arthur. "I have saved you from alligators, O'Driscolls, wolves, ledges. Tonight, you looked the goddam devil in the eye. You weren't even scared. You sure you still need me around?"

Albert kissed him, softly. He lit a cigarette, his eyes tired, glazed. "You know that I love you," he said.

"Of course."

"You know that I love you," said Albert. "That I know your past, and that I accept it. That I'm not afraid of it, nor do I want to change who you are. You know that my only motive for being with you is just this, love."

"Where's all this coming from?" said Arthur. He held his arm along the back of the sofa. 

"Nowhere," said Albert, happy. "I just wanted to make sure you knew. And of course I need you. I may have faced Dutch like a man, but I couldn't take him, not in a million years. Don't be silly."

Arthur laughed, kissed him in the dim light. It was very late. "You have eased my strife, Mr. Mason. We can talk more about it in the morning."

"Do you believe he'll stay away?" said Albert.

"I do. For now."

"All right."

It would be their last night in St. Denis. 

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be as often as possible till complete. You can find me, my art, and more of my writing on [tumblr](https://galadrieljones.tumblr.com/). Comments are deeply appreciated. Thank you for reading. <3 -gala


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